The Mage and the Wolf
by Phoenike
Summary: "Thank you for saving my life, mage. But if you touch me again, I will probably have to kill you." Rivalry m!Hawke/Fenris with a twist. Hadriana, Isabela, later Zevran prominent. Some mild-ish noncon, dubcon.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: My take on the rivalry romance between mage Garrett Hawke and Fenris. Also Fenris/Hadriana, Hawke/Isabela, Hawke/Zevran, and non-con _—_ mild, to my sensibilities, but, ymmv. Rated M for a reason, with quite a few smutty bits, though this didn't end up revolving around smut as much as I'd planned. The story is based on a kink that is revealed in Chapter 3, and deviates from canon in details but not enough to be called AU.

My Hawke is the default one with a hairy mod.

During the early chapters, I had a very vague idea where I was taking the story. Be warned that the fic turns more angsty, later on. Also, I only found myself a beta starting from Chapter 21.

* * *

><p><em>He woke up in the dark to the memory of his own screams.<em>

_A single candle burned in a holder next to the narrow cot. In its flickering glow he could make out the worn white linen sheet that covered him, the stone walls of the cell looming all too close. A heavy wooden door was the only way out, save for a tiny window far above, too small for even a child to pass through._

_The few times he remembered waking before, the agony had made him thrash and cry until, mercifully, he'd passed out. This time the pain was finally almost bearable. It still coursed through him, but no longer in a chaotic and uncontrolled manner. It moved in patterns, instead, spiraling from his chest in long curls across his flesh, all the way to his hands and feet, to his head, between his legs._

_Grimacing with the effort, the pushed himself up to lean on one elbow._

_The sheet over him was stained with brown lines and dots of old blood that were clinging to his skin. Removing it was not a pleasant experience._

_Under the cover, he was completely naked, and the alien markings in his flesh were still oozing blood. They pulsed in pure white under his golden skin, glowing faintly with every heart beat. It did not feel unlike the flow of blood, what throbbed in them, if only he'd had molten lyrium coursing through his veins._

_He raised his left hand. Even there, in his palm, stark white lines carved their way into each long, slender finger. He turned his hand and saw that his nails had turned an ugly black color. A few of them were already falling off._

_Something soft tickled the side of his face. Surprised, he made to brush it away, only to see a length of jet black hair fall to the hard mattress beside him._

_He sat up, startling himself by how fast he could move. Gingerly, he touched his head. The merest contact was enough to part the hair from his scalp. Like a caress it fell down his back and chest. Thick, black, glossy hair, lovingly tended to by someone and now severed from him like, like..._

_A memory fluttered against his mind... was gone._

_Even in his scalp, the elaborate white veins throbbed. His own fingers were like a branding iron against them. His whole body felt burned, more a charred thing than something living; yet to his eyes it seemed whole and unharmed, and whispered with something... something fearsome and unnatural that strained within his aching skin._

_He realized he had no recollection of how he'd come to be in this room. All he could remember was pain. And before the pain... white. The pure, cold and unforgiving color of nothingness._

_He swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat._

_Muffled sounds of footsteps made him look up, tense with a feeling of threat. His heartbeat quickened. With it, the pain grew worse._

_A voice came from behind the door. A key turned in the lock._

_A man stepped inside, a torch in his hand that threw everything in the cell into harsh, red-gold relief. He was a tall human in black and silver robes, thin and straight of back, with a gaunt, bearded face. The man took in the sight of him sitting on the edge of the bed, and smiled in surprised delight._

_"Ah, wonderful. And how are we this fine evening, my pet?"_

_Without quite knowing how it happened, the elf was on his feet and reaching for the man's throat. For a second he could see his own skin glow a pale demonic blue, and it terrified him even more than the human standing in front of him._

_The next moment he was on the floor, gasping with the all too natural pain of being slammed into a force field._

_"So feisty! And you used to be such a good-mannered boy." The man smiled, and that gentle smile crippled his will with an unknown fear. "I am pleased to see that you have recovered. I am Danarius, your master. You must rest and eat. You need to regain your strength for your training. And do not worry about your hair — it will grow back. You will be just as pretty as you always were, my little pet."_

_The man turned to go. "See to it that he's ready tomorrow, Hadriana," he said to someone behind him, and left._

_A boy in a servant's dark red livery stepped inside, knelt to place a tray of food and a large pitcher beside the door. In the doorway, a slender, dark human woman stood listening to the receding footsteps, then looked down at the naked elf who slowly struggled himself back to a sitting position. She did not try to mask the contempt in her striking blue eyes, nor did she spare a glance at the servant who bowed to her and went away._

_"So you didn't die after all." Her voice was as frigid as her eyes. Not knowing why, he almost preferred that to the male visitor's false kindness; he had no idea who she was, but at least she did not pretend._

_"Where... where am I?" the elf growled, his own deep, gravelly voice unfamiliar in his ears. "Who are you?"_

_The blue eyes narrowed. "You really can't remember, can you?" She stepped to him, pushed at his chest with one silk-slippered foot. Shamefully it was enough to send him back to the floor, where he sprawled beneath her weight, every breath like fire in his lungs. For a while she just stared at him, as if probing into his mind for something — and for all he knew, she did. His heart raced and the pain in his markings grew worse, until he groaned and tears streamed from his eyes with the white-hot agony._

_"I see. How inconvenient. Years of conditioning... all wasted." Her painted mouth curled into an almost regretful smile. The blue eyes examined his body, lingering at certain areas a little longer than others. Then she removed her foot from his chest. Immediately, the pain receded back to a dull, throbbing ache. "Well, at least you still have all your parts intact. Perhaps I can draw some amusement from this new state of things. Until then... Enjoy your meal, worm."_

_She waved a hand toward the candle, smothering the small flame that was the only source of light in the cell. With a cold laugh she stepped away and slammed the door shut behind her._

_The lock clicked, the sounds from the corridor faded, and the elf was alone again, this time in a true dark where only his half-healed markings glowed dimly into the black void._

_Slowly, grimacing with the pain of it, he rolled onto his side. And unable to stop himself he cried, shedding tears of anger and shame at the white poison that was embedded in his skin, and at the raw emptiness where his memories should have been._

o o o

As mages went, Garrett Hawke had always considered himself an exceptionally boring one.

Not that he lacked skill or talent. Or had many other casters to compare himself with, until he arrived at Kirkwall. But where Bethany had always complained of constant nightmares, haunted by spirits who tried to seduce her from the straight and narrow, Hawke slept like a baby, and the only type of spirit that regularly bothered him was the kind that came in a bottle. In the rare case that some inhabitant of the Fade tried to approach him in his sleep, he mostly did not understand a word they said. He usually resorted to making faces and flinging tired jokes at them until, confused or bored — or both — they went away.

Carver liked to warn that his brother just hadn't been found by a strong enough demon. But Hawke tended to put that in the same basket as his mother's opinion that his fondness for loose women and gambling would one day be cured by the Right Girl.  
>Whatever the truth, Hawke had always thought it was not as much willpower as sheer lack of affinity that had saved him from the temptation of blood magic. Perhaps for that same reason he sometimes underrated the danger of being an apostate in a city that was known for its merciless templars, and often took too few precautions before he revealed his abilities to strangers.<p>

Even so, it was a bit much that he was now being confronted about his gifts by an elf who had some sort of fancy magical tattoos branded all over his skin, and occasionally turned into a ghost who killed people by passing his hand through them.

"Excuse me. I think I have something in my ear," Hawke said slowly. "I could swear I heard you say something nasty about me and my fondness for fireballs."

The tall, slender elf crossed his arms and stared at him from the shadows across the nighttime street. Beneath the spider-silk hair, his face was impossible to see. Even so, Hawke noticed the man's eyes glint as they narrowed in suspicion. He also noticed that the elf had not attached the strap that would have secured his beautiful two-handed blade to its scabbard.

"I saw you casting spells inside." The man's strange, deep voice reverberated with a faint accent that Hawke now recognized as Tevinter. "I should have realized sooner what you really were."

"And pray tell me, what is that?"

"A mage." Hawke had rarely heard the word being said with more resentment. "A mage, and worse — an apostate, a mage that imagines himself capable of being free. Tell me then. What manner of mage are you? What do you seek?"

Hawke placed his right hand on his hip and leaned on his iron-bound maple staff. He was a tall man, heavily built, and already had something of a reputation in the undercity as someone not to be messed with. But this strange elf — Fenris, was it? — did not seem particularly impressed.

"Fame and fortune," Hawke answered. "Same as everyone."

The joke was completely wasted on the elf. Hawke might as well have said he liked to eat babies for breakfast. With puppy dogs for a side dish.

"I see."

"You're the one to judge," Hawke heard Isabela butt in from his side. The rogue stepped into view, striking a pose that somehow managed to convey both sarcasm and an open invitation to admire her amazing cleavage — and the wicked daggers at her curving hips. "Mr. Magical fisting trick."

"These powers were not given to me by choice. Beyond that, what I am is none of your concern."

Varric appeared out of the shadow from Hawke's other side, one hand resting on Bianca's shapely butt. "If you have a problem with Hawke, you have a problem with all of us."

For a moment the four of them just stared at each other across the deserted Hightown street. Hawke could not help but wonder how ridiculous it would be to fight this Fenris fellow now, after all the trouble they had gone through — first Anso's false lead and the bounty hunters, then thrashing the old manor in search of a Tevinter magister whose death in Kirkwall would undoubtedly have caused a diplomatic fiasco.

But if he really thought so, why had he agreed to help the elf in the first place? At this point, he did not really expect to get paid. There had been little in the house worth taking.

Surely he wasn't doing it just for a pair of lovely green eyes?

Incidentally, it was that very pair of eyes that looked aside first. It seemed that the elf had reached some sort of a conclusion, and apparently it did not involve ridding Thedas of a certain filthy apostate right now.

"You are powerful, I give you that," the elf said.

"You're not half bad with that sword, yourself."

Varric released his crossbow and pushed his thumbs under his belt. "Sounds to me like the start of a beautiful friendship."

"Yes... about that." The elf cleared his throat. Whatever he was going to say next, it sounded like he had to force the words out. "I imagine I must appear ungrateful. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yet... I cannot pay you. What little I had, I gave to Anso. I'm afraid I will need to offer you my services, instead."

_That_ gave Hawke reason to pause. _An escaped slave with a sense of honor? I'll be damned._"You, working for me? You didn't seem all that thrilled with me a moment ago."

Fenris shrugged. "I said my piece. Take it or leave it."

"I don't know," Isabela said. "I can think of a few ways to use his... services."

If the words had any sort of an effect on the elf, it was impossible to say, for he was still standing in the shadows.

Hawke stroked his beard, puzzled by the strange turn of discussion. "If I accept... against my better judgment I might add... are we going to be hassled by these bounty hunters at every turn? Seems like a complication that will have to be taken into account if we strike any sort of a deal. Which reminds me — capturing you seems like a costly venture. Your old master must want something more than just a runaway slave."

A silence, then — perhaps the elf was considering how far to trust him. Then he relaxed his arms to his sides and stepped forward. Moonlight fell on his white hair and dusky skin, and as he looked at Hawke again, the mage felt his breath catch, just like it had when he'd first seen the elf in the alienage.

Many elves could be called attractive in their strange way, but this one had good looks that transcended race or gender. He was not only taller and darker of skin than Southern elves; he was also broader of shoulder and his features were stronger, more striking than delicate or beautiful. He would have appeared exotic even without his tattoos or the unusual color of his hair. The way he moved reminded Hawke of a lone wolf who would bite off a stranger's hand if he came too close. And the way Hawke had seem him fight, he seemed more than capable of doing it. It was nothing short of... intriguing.

"I suppose there's no harm in telling, considering how much you already know. My former master doesn't want me at all, just the markings on my skin. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet. And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse."

"Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf."

_I am! I am doing it for a pair of green eyes. Blight it, Garrett Hawke, you're an idiot._

The elf coughed. "Ah... well. The truth is... I know nothing of the ritual that placed these markings on me. It was Danarius's choice, one he now regrets."

"Without doubt," Hawke said, recalling the carnage the elf had left in his wake in the alienage where the Imperial bounty hunters had, earlier that night, set their trap. No wonder this Danarius fellow was a bit cross over losing such an instrument — or perhaps wished he hadn't made it quite so powerful. "Well, what the hell. I am planning a Deep Roads expedition I might need help with. You can swing a sword and seem to have contacts I could use. And it's not like my companions don't already carry so much baggage that a little more would make any difference. By the way it keeps piling up, we're going to need a wagon for each of us when we set out for the Deep Roads."

The elf nodded. "Fair enough. If you need me, you will find me here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he's free to return and claim it."

Hawke glanced at the decrepit manor looming above them. The elf was going to stay here? Aveline and the city authorities would probably have something to say about that. But as to Hawke — well, as a smuggler and a hired sword who certainly wasn't above breaking into a house now or then to complete a job, it was none of his business.

He frowned at a different matter entirely. "There's something you should probably know. I am not the only mage you will encounter if you work for me. And I will not tolerate any hostility toward people I consider my friends."

A look of distaste ghosted over the elf's well-proportioned features. Then he looked away and shrugged.

"Ah. Well." He turned back and stepped out of the light, into the shadow of his master's dilapidating abode. "I am working for you, not them. And you are not Danarius. Whether you are anything like him... remains to be seen."

o o o

Later that night at the Hanged Man, Hawke and his companions were sitting around their usual table, sipping ale, eating and idly gossiping while Isabela shuffled a pack of cards for another uninspired round of Wicked Grace.

It had lately ceased being difficult for them to find free seats in the Lowtown establishment. Actually, when Hawke arrived, a table in the back of the bar tended to suddenly become available. It was a definite change from the first time Hawke had set his foot in the place, when the regulars had almost thrown him out for being a Fereldan, until they learned he worked for Athenril.

Now he and his companions were even sometimes served ale that tasted like it wasn't just rat's piss mixed with nug droppings.

"Did any of you notice the armor?" Varric said.

Merrill raised her head from the dirty old bit of metal she had been cleaning. Hawke had no idea what it was or where she'd got it from; then again, he had no idea where she got any of the junk that was quickly turning her home into a magpie's nest. "Who are you talking about, Varric? That elf you mentioned earlier? Oh, it is so exciting! I've never met a Tevinter elf. Tell me about him. Is he anything like the Dalish?"

"Oh yes," Anders joined in with false enthusiasm. "Please tell us about the crazy mage-hater you _decided to recruit_. I mean, obviously there was no reasonable way to approach the situation, such as... dunno, knocking him unconscious and earning some money by delivering the nutcase back where he belongs?"

"My brother and reason?" Carver shook his head. "Sorry, the sentence doesn't parse."

Varric ignored the other men. "Well, he has pointy ears and pretty eyes, Daisy," he said to Merrill. "Otherwise... He's nothing like you. I don't know what they feed the elves up there, but it must be goddamn hard to pass, otherwise I can't explain why he seemed so sodding cranky. Anyway. The armor? With the iron feathers and all?"

"_I_noticed." Isabela had a twinkle in her eye, one Hawke already knew all too well. "I tend to pay attention when someone goes around in black leather and metal that fits like a glove. Well, at least when the specimen inside is so... pleasant. That magister who owned him might have been a complete asshole, but at least he had an excellent taste."

Varric sighed. "You bunch of hopeless apes. What I mean is, that armor was far too fancy for a runaway slave who couldn't even scrape together a few silver to pay us. This Danarius must have had it made for him. What does it say that, after all this time, the elf still wears it?"

"That he has a sense of style?" Isabela offered.

"Har har." Varric wagged a thick, callused finger. "My instincts never lie. Well, maybe that one time that involved Orlesian cheese and a chamber pot, but I digress. I know a good tale when I see one. The man has a past, one that has left him not quite right in the head. He's also good at what he does, and what he does is not pretty. Stuff like that tends to make for a great story. I hope you intend to take him up on his offer?" he concluded, directing the last words at Hawke who, until now, had remained silent.

Hawke toyed with the dwindling pile of coppers in front of him. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Isabela threw a piece of bread at the mage from across the table. "Of course you will, you dog! 'Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.' Ugh, no wonder he almost coughed up his supper. And I didn't even know you swing that way! I thought you only go for buxom wenches with swaying hips and a sultry smile. Or what did you say the other day? About liking your 'marks hard and your tricks easy'?"

Hawke remembered his clumsy flirting all too well. What had possessed him to say such a darnedest thing to a man who obviously found him more or less as fetching as a dead sewer rat?

"I live to surprise you, my dear." _And apparently, myself._"I know how you like surprises."

"The kind that involve two handsome men with their hands all over each other? Yes, please."

Carver looked like he was going to be sick. "Hey. Mental images here. Please."

"Oh, poor baby." Isabela grinned at the younger Hawke, then returned her attention to the elder one. "But could it be that you just can't resist a challenge? Poor fellow, he looked like he expected you to curse him on the spot."

"As you probably should have," Anders muttered.

Hawke knew he should have agreed. He recalled the look the elf — _Fenris_— had given him after he'd scorched the shades that had been waiting for them in Danarius's mansion. That same spell had seemed to burn away all beginnings of an acceptance he'd had for Hawke's company.

_Please, help me do this,_the elf had pleaded earlier, when they'd first met, all hope and urgency and compelling looks. And Hawke's stupid heart had skipped a beat (or maybe the reaction had been situated a bit lower than that) and against his better judgment he'd done what this gorgeous, alien creature asked. And then everything had turned to shit. For a moment in the manor, he'd been sure the elf would join the shades against them. After they'd found out that the magister was no longer around, Fenris had said something about needing fresh air, and Hawke had been sure he'd never see the elf again. But when they'd left the dusty old place, there he'd been, waiting in the shadows. And asked if everything Hawke had said had been a lie.

"More like he was contemplating whether to skewer me now or save the pleasure for later."

"Oh! That doesn't sound very friendly." Merrill frowned. "Rather makes me wonder what he'll do to _me_. He might decide to spare you and skewer me instead, you know. I'm smaller and... easier to skewer."

"I don't know, Hawke." Varric rubbed his beardless chin and threw a thoughtful look at his Fereldan companion. "Free or not... well, for someone who is fighting to escape an evil magocracy, he seemed oddly willing to serve the first capable mage that crossed his path."

"I'm sure there must be more to it than that," Hawke said, but Isabela had already started dealing, and to avoid any more inquiry into his motives the mage pretended to concentrate solely on his cards.


	2. Chapter 2

_His hair grew back as unnaturally white as the markings on his skin. At least the short, dense growth covered the hated lyrium veins in his scalp._

_"I think I will call him Fenris, 'little wolf'," Danarius said, pacing slowly around the elf, who had been dressed in a black vest and breeches that contrasted with the color of his hair and markings. The fitting clothes complemented the slave's lean, strong figure. He was tall for an elf, but Danarius, ever the scarecrow, still stood almost a head taller than him. "What do you think, Hadriana? Doesn't it suit his pretty new look?"_

_"Yes, Danarius," his apprentice answered from where she lounged on a divan, sounding slightly bored as she selected a pickled cherry from a silver platter, presented to her by an elf slave who wore almost nothing but jewelry against her lush brown skin._

_Calling the elf 'pretty' was undoubtedly part of Danarius's strange humor. Everyone else shied away from his new toy, terrified by the stories all Tevinters had heard of such warriors._

_Everyone but Danarius... and his pet pupil._

_"Fitting, now that I think of it," she continued. "He's little more than an animal, now. He should have an animal's name."_

"_Now, now, Hadriana. He's much more than a beast. In fact, let's have a little... experiment. You there!" Danarius crooked a finger at a young warrior who was standing in attendance at the door. The man was handsomely garbed in splint mail and plate, with a shield and longsword at his back, yet he was still marked Danarius's property by the golden band at his throat. It was technically illegal to keep humans as slaves in the Imperium; however, just like blood magic, it was a law that meant little to the magisters. Slavery, servitude – the terms might have been different, but in effect, there was little to set apart a bonded human servant and a slave elf._

_"Come here."_

_The warrior's boots clicked against marble as he walked across the room. Obedient as any underling in the great house, he stared meekly at the opposing wall._

"_Yes, master?"_

"_Kill him," Danarius ordered._

_This caught the servant's attention. "Master?"_

_Hadriana was also struck from her idleness. She sat up on the couch like a cat spotting a mouse, intent to witness what followed._

"_Are you deaf? I ordered you to kill this slave."_

"_H-how? With my sword?"_

_Danarius rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, with your sword, you lackwit. Strike at his throat. You've killed men before, haven't you?"_

"_Y-yes, master."_

_The man pulled his weapon. It left its scabbard with an evil hiss. Danarius stepped out of the way._

"_Observe, Hadriana," he said as the warrior swung his arm left to give a swift killing blow that would cut the elf's head from his shoulders._

_All this time, the white-haired elf had been standing in place like a statue. Not even his eyes had moved to testify that he'd listened to his master's words. Now they turned toward the warrior, registered the angle of his long right arm as it reached the far position behind his left shoulder and started toward his head._

_Without as much as an expression, the elf dropped into a crouching stance beneath the arch of the blade and reached for the warrior's plate-covered torso. Blue-white light sizzled over the elf's skin and, phasing out, his hand passed straight through the steel of the warrior's armor and the flesh beneath._

_The young warrior staggered and dropped his sword. He stared in horror at the strong, slender arm buried in his chest. Behind his back, the elf's fingers twitched. Moss-green eyes watched the human's terrified face from beneath black eyebrows as, still without an expression, the elf curled his fingers into a fist._

_The warrior opened his mouth to scream, but only a wet gurgling sound emerged. Blood exploded from his chest and back. As he collapsed, the elf pulled back his hand, and stood up._

"_Excellent," Danarius cried._

_Bewildered, the elf stared at the dying man at his feet. Then he looked at his right arm. It was covered in gore. Thick blood and bits of flesh drooled from it to the floor. The markings on his arm were still glowing faintly through the mucus._

_Hadriana clapped her hands. "How marvelous! I've heard about it, but never seen it with my own eyes."_

"_Yes, a most useful skill, as you can see."_

_The elf staggered back. After only a few steps his legs gave beneath him. He fell on his knees and hands and retched on the marble that had been polished to perfection by one of the nameless slaves that inhabited the magister's great house._

"_There's no need to be so melodramatic, Fenris," Danarius sighed. "You have killed men before, quite willingly. Now you can just do it better. And with a bit more... flourish."_

_The warm stink of death thick in his keen nostrils, the elf heaved until there was nothing left in his stomach._

"_How positively disgusting," he heard Hadriana laugh right before he fainted. "Although the scene does remind me that we need to arrange an orgy, one of these days."_

* * *

><p>"Hawke."<p>

The mage pulled up short in the middle of the foyer, and raised his head toward the deep voice that had echoed into his ears from across the hall, through rain pounding on the roof and water dripping through the numerous holes in it.

The Tevinter elf stood at the railing of the upper floor, a lean dark figure against the grey afternoon light from the broken windows. His gauntleted left hand was resting on the hilt of his bared greatsword. Both gleamed in a rather unfriendly and well-cleaned manner.

Hawke assumed his most innocent demeanor. It only made him look guiltier.

"The... door was open."

"No, it wasn't, mage. It was bolted and barred."

Hawke winced. "I knocked. For a long time."

"I heard." The elf took his sword. "Well, I assume you have some business with me, so come in. Though I suppose you already have."

Fenris disappeared through a door behind him. Hawke squared his shoulders and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

_Good job, Garrett. _Assuming that the elf was not around, Hawke had magicked the door open, telling himself it was just to leave a message and go. He had definitely not intended to... snoop around and try to find hints about the elf's past. That would have been rude. Most definitely.

The room beyond the door had been rearranged. In effect this meant that Fenris had thrown out most of the dusty, extravagant clutter that had been there, and replaced it with some less dusty and less extravagant clutter. Hawke saw a couple of wooden benches and a small table near the fireplace, a few locked chests, and a bed that had definitely seen better days. Despite the wall hangings, moldy paintings, velvet pillows and thick rugs, it was by no means a luxurious place to live, but at least the roof was not leaking, and the fireplace crackled with a cozy fire.

Wet and cold from his walk through the rainy city, Hawke walked to the fireplace and warmed his chilled hands in its heat.

"Danarius did not visit Kirkwall often, it seems," he said, acutely aware of the elf moving somewhere behind him. "This place is a mess."

"Yes. My former master leaves Minrathous very rarely. I assume his contact in Kirkwall has been less than competent."

Hawke removed his wet cloak and sat down on one of the benches. There was movement to his right, and the elf came to stand near the fire, with a half-drained bottle of wine in his hand.

Noticing Hawke's interest, he held it up for inspection. "Agreggio Pavali. There's six bottles in the cellar."

"Not altogether incompetent, then," Hawke said.

"Hmh."

Fenris took a long swig from the bottle. Hawke watched the profile of his throat move as he swallowed. The sinuous white markings danced against his beautifully defined jaw and the muscle of his long, graceful neck. Strands of cropped white hair brushed against the curve of his ear. Hawke wondered how that hair would feel against his hand. Would it be as soft as it seemed?

The elf moved the mouth of the bottle from his lips. Hawke saw drops of wine glisten on them. Then he realized that the man was looking at him from the corner of one green eye.

His face grew hot and he averted his gaze.

The elf eyed the bottle for a moment, then threw it across the room where it shattered against the far wall.

"It's good I can still take pleasure in the small things," he said almost amicably as he turned back toward the mage.

_I can show you some large things to take pleasure in, _Hawke thought, and felt his face grow even hotter.

"You... could have offered me a glass first, you know."

"There's more, if you really want it."

Wine seemed to have softened the elf's guard slightly, but he still kept his distance. The fire was lighting his face from one side; the other was in half shadow, cut through by the dim, grey afternoon light. His moss green eyes were fixed on Hawke and the mage could tell he was contemplating whether inviting the mage in had been a good idea, or a very bad one.

"Me, drink your precious Agreggio Pavali?" Hawke said. "Perish the thought. How else would you redecorate the walls?"

The corners of Fenris's beautiful mouth twitched, as he turned to look back into the fire. The golden light made his skin shimmer, and Hawke could tell it was immaculately clean. Elves – so ridiculously attached to their personal hygiene. He wondered how Fenris handled his. Surely he didn't visit the public baths Hawke and his friends used to frequent. Not that there weren't perfectly decent public baths in Kirkwall, even ones that accepted elves, but Fenris probably didn't want to draw attention to his presence in the city... or to the strange markings on his body. Which only underlined the question of how the hell he had arranged a bath, all alone in this rotting house.

Fenris... Bathing.

With those white markings snaking their way down his arms and his chest, probably all the way to...

_Maybe I should try thinking of buxom wenches?_

It didn't help. Now he was thinking about Fenris in a bath with a buxom wench.

_Oh Maker, I'm staring again. There is something seriously wrong with me..._

Mercifully, the elf broke the silence.

"My master... used to have me pour that wine for his guests. My appearance intimidated them, he said, which he enjoyed."

"I can't imagine why they would be put off."

Hawke blinked as the elf turned to look him square in the eye. The mage knew it would have taken a blind idiot or a child to not see what he felt.

And maybe it was better this way. He didn't remember being this attracted to anyone in years. Best to get the thing out of the way as fast as possible. Wasn't that how he went through life, after all? Keeping the table clean.

_What the hell will I do if he consents? I have no idea what to do with a man. Oh, blight it. I'll just improvise. I'm good at improvising, aren't I?_

_Hmm. He's frowning. Damn. I think I forgot for a moment that he hates me._

"You say what's on your mind, I'll give you that. But I suggest that from now on... you don't."

Hawke straightened his back. Whatever he truly felt, he laughed to cover it up, as always.

"I'm not irresistible, after all? You wound me."

"And you humans are too quick in your feelings. They seem barely more than whims to me. In any case, I am not a good target for such interests."

"Because I'm a man? Or because I'm a mage?"

"No, but thank you for reminding me about both." Fenris turned away, clearly irritated. "Why did you come, Hawke? Is there something you need? Or did you just come to piss around and play best buddies? Make no mistake. We shall not be friends."

Hawke frowned. It was one thing to be rejected... another to be smacked verbally in the face by his would-be business partner. "I need to know who you are. And don't you want to know who you'll be working for?"

"I'm an escaped slave, living in a borrowed mansion. Whatever life I had before I received these markings... it's lost. The pain of receiving them burned away everything. I escaped from my master three years ago and have been on the run ever since. I know I am from Seheron, but there's no life for me there. For now I am staying in Kirkwall, waiting for Danarius's next move."

The elf paced away, fingered some of the things he had piled on the table; old pewter mugs and plates, knifes, tools that were probably intended for repairing his sword and armor.

"There, I've told you everything. As to knowing who you are, Hawke... I already made inquiries. I know you're trying to reclaim your heritage as a noble of this city. I know you come from Lothering, and that you lost your sister to the blight. I know you are a man who honors a bargain."

For once unable to think of a witty retort, Hawke stared at the elf's back.

"You don't want to track your former master down?" he asked then, just to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Why? Better to fight him from a fortified position. But if he does give up, I go to him. I will not live with a wolf at my back. Now, is there something else you want to know, or are we done?"

"Maker, I am starting to agree with you about the friends thing. Don't you have anything positive to say?"

"The wine was tasty," Fenris said through his teeth. "Also, thank you for helping me against the bounty hunters. Had I known Anso would find me a man so... capable, I might have asked him to look sooner."

A compliment less flatteringly delivered Hawke had never heard.

"You sound like you're about to ask for a loan. And then stab me in the back."

"Well, this mansion does require some upkeep. But if it makes you feel better about our... arrangement, I'll practice my flattery for your next visit. As for backstabbing you, have no fear. I, also, am a man who keeps his end of a bargain."

The elf took his sword and a cloak from a chair by the door.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some things to do. Please see yourself out. And bolt the door while you go. I trust that is not too much to ask, considering how you got in."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Hawke to wonder what the hell had just happened.

* * *

><p>They did not become friends. They could not even be called true allies. The most that could be said was that they rarely fought in public. Even so, they never really agreed to disagree. They just... accidentally strove toward the same goals. Most of the time.<p>

The fact was, what existed between Hawke and Fenris could perhaps have been called a truce – an agreement from Hawke's part to tolerate Fenris's distrust and bursts of outrage, and from Fenris's part to not turn against Hawke as long as he felt he still owed him. Hawke helped Fenris to get rid of the Imperial bounty hunters that still sometimes pestered him, and Fenris helped Hawke to earn money for his Deep Roads expedition. Their arrangement was simple and efficient. Why should they have been friends?

Hawke supposed he should be grateful. At least the Tevinter elf gradually stopped treating him with resentment bordering on hostility, like in the beginning. He still sometimes caught himself staring at the man, thinking of what might have been. But such feelings were useless. And despite a few restless dreams now and then, Hawke was good at weeding useless things from his life.

Time went by, and passed the point where it would have been reasonable to assume that Fenris's debt to Hawke was paid. They did not discuss the matter. Things were working well. Why should they have changed anything?

And then there were the bad days, like the one when he finally had to make the choice he'd been avoiding for almost two years – the choice between maintaining the order that existed, and fighting against it.

He let the mages go. It was made easier by the fact that Varric was there to spin a clever story for the templars, which prevented them from having to kill anyone, that day. But Fenris... Fenris was definitely not happy.

"You fool!" the elf railed at him, back in Kirkwall. They had arrived in the city at dusk, and the others had gone their way. The two of them were the only ones left, standing in the shade of a house in Hightown, hidden from curious eyes by an ivy-covered fence. Fenris paced back and forth as if desperate to direct his rage into something else than strangling the mage, like he obviously wished. Hawke leaned against the fence and pretended to clean bits of dried blood from his dagger.

"For all the things I've thought of you, I never thought you naive," Fenris spat. "What choice do you think those children will have, hunted and alone? You had your family. They have nothing! They will turn to blood magic as surely as a stray dog turns to stealing!"

"You don't know that," Hawke said. But even to him, the words sounded hollow.

"You don't know how many time I witnessed it happen in Minrathous. Tired of the oppression of the magisters, those young magelings would escape the Circle, only to return as parasites that had to be hunted down and killed. The promise of an easy life is too strong, the alternative too difficult."

"Everyone deserves a chance."

"Really? Even that elf-murdering piece of shit, Kelder? Would you have given _him_ a chance? I suggest you don't try to hide behind that excuse. Whatever the snakes you freed today will do, it shall be on _your_ hands."

"If I recall, Kelder died, by _your_ hands no less. He had his chance and lost it." Hawke gritted his teeth. He was also losing patience. They had been through this useless argument before; perhaps not in such direct words, but close enough for both of them to realize it would lead nowhere.

"Yes, he lost it! As will any mage, one way or the other."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

Hawke eyed the elf coolly. "If you truly believe that, why are you still here?"

The look he received in return was nothing less than scathing. "That's a hell of a good question."

After that, Hawke did not see Fenris for a month. Jobs came and were done, his mother made plans to speak to the Viscount to reclaim their heritage; Carver moped and grew more distant. Ships left and arrived at the harbor, restocking Kirkwall with lowlifes almost as fast as Hawke kept dispatching them. In other words, life continued.

If possible, it was just a bit emptier without a certain fine profile to admire.

Gradually, Hawke started to believe that the Tevinter elf had finally decided that staying in Kirkwall had been a mistake, after all. Then, one evening, Fenris reappeared at the Hanged Man, and joined their table as if nothing had happened - or at least he was jus as moody and irritable as before.

They did not speak of their fight. They never really made up, and the memory of the argument remained between them. Time wore it thinner, but it never truly went away. Sometimes Hawke saw the elf eye his wrists as if trying to catch a glimpse of a telltale scar.

And then there were the good days - the days when Hawke realized that, in another life, they might have been friends. It was a strange thought. Sometimes Fenris even chuckled at his jokes. Hawke rarely saw him laugh or smile to anyone else. The elf's smiles were brief and sardonic, but when he laughed, the shadow left his face and, for a moment, Hawke was vaguely aware of the very different man Fenris might have been, had the lyrium not burned away everything. For some reason it always made his heart ache.


	3. Chapter 3

"Back off, demon!"

At the sight of Fenris's gauntleted right hand flashing white light, Anders pulled away as if from fire, almost stumbling on the dead hurlock behind him. Or actually, half of a hurlock. "I can't bloody well get that thing out of you if I don't come closer!"

"Do it, abomination, and I swear I will make you sorry for it," Fenris growled, dragging his greatsword between him and the healer. He was already too weak to lift it.

Anders turned toward Hawke, who approached them at half run, wiping blood and bits of darkspawn from his face. The mage's ears were still ringing with the explosions.

"Do you still think bringing him to the Deep Roads was a good idea?" Anders shouted. Maybe there was something wrong with his hearing as well.

The elf stood huddled against a stone pillar, a foot-long piece of broken wood sticking out of his stomach to the right side. Jagged and splintered, it was an ugly thing to behold. Blood was seeping alarmingly fast down his hip. Despite the heat that made them all sweat, an ice-cold fear squeezed at Hawke's innards. Without healing, such an injury would kill a man, and he knew it was not the only wound the elf had suffered.

His mind was still reeling with the image of Fenris being swept from his feet by an ogre, about to be crushed. Like Bethany... Her back broken in five different places, the side of her head caved in, her arms and legs lying in unnatural angles like a rag doll's...

_So much blood..._

Hawke glanced at the corpse of the monstrously large darkspawn behind them. Huge, split pieces of wood had pierced its back to the left side, buried much deeper than the one in Fenris.

The fight... it had not gone well. There had been too many hurlocks... and then, the ogre. They had had no time to prepare. Roaring, the huge thing had emerged from behind a corner and grabbed at the nearest enemy, which happened to have been the elf. Hawke remembered seeing Fenris in its claws; after that, he did not remember much. Apparently he had set off a dwarven trap behind the darkspawns' back. The series of huge explosions had taken out the ogre and several hurlocks, but it had also showered Hawke and his companions in deadly shards of wood and metal. They were all bloodied and hurt.

But none of them fared so bad as Fenris. He had been closest to the blast, and although the ogre's body had shielded him from the most of it... it had not been enough. Blood was already trickling down his leg, and his face was losing color as they spoke. Hawke fought down his rising panic. "Fenris, don't be a fool."

"_Vishante kaffas!"_

"You're bleeding to death!"

Fenris bared his teeth in a snarl. Feral green eyes pierced the mage from beneath the white hair that clung to the elf's grimy forehead_._ Never yet had he seemed so much like a vicious beast, or a trapped wolf.

Hawke began to consider the chances and consequences of holding the elf down by force.

Then Fenris grimaced and pressed his gauntleted hand to his stomach. "Isabela," he groaned. "She can do it."

"She's no healer," Anders cried.

"I know how to dress a wound." The Rivaini rogue stepped to them from where she'd been picking splinters from Varric and herself. "I'll do what I can."

Anders opened his mouth to object, then looked from the glowering elf to the begrimed pirate. He took a step back and crossed his arms. "Fine. Fine! But if he dies, it's officially out of my hands."

The elf closed his eyes and leaned back as Isabela laid her hands on his steel-enforced cuirass. It was sheer bad luck that the piece of exploding barrel had struck Fenris right where a softer leather seam had been left to allow for natural movement.

"I'll have to cut this," she said, quickly learning the straps and buckles of the elf's outlandish armor. Hawke could not help thinking that she probably had a lot of experience about getting people out of all sorts of gear. He already knew she had extraordinarily nimble fingers. They had tricked him in Wicked Grace and Diamondback more times than he cared to remember.

Fenris nodded, eyes still closed. Reluctantly he let go of his sword, allowing it to drop. Isabela helped him remove his gauntlets, arm guards and belt, and they also fell to the dirty, bloodied floor.

The rogue pulled a small, sharp dagger from her vest. The thick, layered leather of the cuirass had been put together with heavy linen thread, black and oily as if rolled in tar. Cutting the seam was hard work. When the rogue was done, she was even more drenched in sweat, and not just because it was almost intolerably warm down here in the ancient dwarven thaig.

"When I dreamed of getting my hands all over you, elf, this was not what I imagined," she muttered as she pushed the cuirass open and let it fall from Fenris' shoulders.

Hawke was trying to busy himself with picking wood and hurlock pieces out of his own equipment, but his eyes kept wandering back to where Isabela and Fenris stood. The elf's chest was rising and falling rapidly. Hawke saw that, as expected, he had more of the white markings on his smoothly muscled torso. They flowed in a leaf-like pattern from his chest to his abdomen. It looked like, lower down, there would be more.

The elf's midsection was covered in horrifying red and black bruises where the ogre had gripped him. Hawke realized he was probably bleeding internally as well. How on Thedas was Fenris still conscious, let alone on his feet? Was it the lyrium? He rarely complained of wounds after a fight, even when Hawke knew he had received a battering. The next day he was usually fine, maybe a bit bruised but otherwise, not much worse for wear. Hawke had always wondered whether the markings had something to do with it.

The elf was starting to shake, now. As Isabela pressed her hand against his chest to steady him, he hissed.

"Hey! I'm not even doing anything yet," she said. "Why are you so jumpy?"

"It's... not that." Sweat was running down his temples, soaking the grime that covered him, the same as everyone else. Despite the heat, he shivered and his lips were getting blue. "Go on."

"It's me, isn't it? My touch hurts you?" she asked, pushing at him to keep him still while she examined the ugly thing sticking from his side.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"The... markings," Fenris said through clenched teeth.

"They hurt when I touch them?" Her eyes widened.

He nodded.

"That's horrible! How can we have mind-blowing sex if it hurts when I touch you?"

"You've been planning... to have mind-blowing sex... with me?" The elf's face was turning alarmingly grey.

"Wouldn't it be a terrible waste of an opportunity if we didn't? How much does it hurt? Is it like a... mosquito sting? Or 'oh, Maker, please let me die'?"

Fenris sagged against her and fainted. She staggered back and, with help from Anders, laid the elf down on the filthy floor.

"Shit," she said. "I guess that's a vote for the 'please Maker let me die'."

"More likely it's just the blood loss. Well, at least this will make things a bit easier." Anders kneeled down to help her. Together they managed to pull the piece of barrel from Fenris's side. Blood and worse bubbled out from where it had been. Anders immediately fell into his healing trance, with his hands hovering right above the gaping wound, and Isabela sat down and wiped her smudged forehead. She pulled away her scarf and, to her disgust, found a whole hurlock finger from her hair, claw and all.

"Shit!" she repeated and threw the bit of darkspawn from her in disgust. "Bloody hell, I hate this place!" She kicked at a stone on the floor and noticed Hawke hovering near, trying not to look anxious.

"You!" She pointed her finger at him. "What the hell was wrong with you? I've never seen you do stupid shit like that before!"

Hawke leaned on his staff. "I got... distracted?"

She snorted. "Yeah. If you got distracted like that every time _I_ end up in a tight spot, we would have been dead ten times over. I guess I should to be glad that I'm not a white-haired elf with a tight arse and a full-body tattoo. And that Fenris is usually rather good at staying on top of things. Well, at least in a fight. Can't say about anything else, obviously."

"I'm not used to seeing him... in trouble."

"What you're saying is, you can't take it." With a graceful series of moves, Isabela got on her feet and came to stand in front of him. "You're in love with the elf, aren't you?" she said, her voice low in respect of not letting the others hear.

Hawke bristled. "Isabela, please."

Her golden brown eyes searched his face. He was uncomfortably aware that she was not only a beautiful and deadly woman, but also much wiser than those who met her in passing gave her credit for.

"All right then, you just really, really want to screw him and are worried out of your mind he'll be dead before you have the chance. Whatever it is, I've known you for a year now, Hawke. And I've never seen you fly off the handle like that. I'm not blind, you know. Anyway, looks like this time, neither of us is going to get lucky."

Mercifully, the uncomfortable exchange was interrupted by Varric, who hobbled toward them from where he'd been doing a checkup on Bianca.

"Guys, should we do something useful instead of bickering? We haven't got that much time, you know."

Minutes passed. Hawke wished they had passed a little faster. He pretended to gather crossbow bolts and rifle through the corpses with the moping Isabela and a slightly limping Varric, while in truth he probably didn't even notice half of the stuff he should have taken. Through the insistent whining in his ears, he could hear the eternal churn and bubble of the lava far below the stretch of red rock they were standing on. From somewhere far deeper came a distant, unending boom that he did not want to think too much about.

The Deep Roads were easily one of the most unsettling places Hawke had been so far. Maybe the second most unsettling, right behind Lothering when the blight struck.

Lothering. Hawke wondered how long it would take before anything green would again grow on the fields and forests where he'd played as a child. The useless memories he'd locked away were sneaking back against his will, stirred by the disturbing familiarity of this place. What he'd once felt as a soldier in Ostagar, or as a refugee fleeing Lothering, he now felt here, just in a more... condensed form. And the remembrance was not pleasant.

He wondered how Anders was handling it. After all, the man was a Grey Warden – or at least had been one before his strange merger with Justice.

"There," he heard Anders say. The healer's voice was exhausted as he staggered to sit on a hewn rock that was part of the barricades set up on this stretch of the thaig. "That was a nasty hole. Andraste's knickers, I hope there won't be more like it very soon. I don't know if I can stitch up anything that big again before a good night's sleep. And I doubt we'll be getting much of that, down here."

Relieved, Hawke came to stand beside the unconscious elf.

The signs of the ogre's grip were still there, but they were now the livid yellow and green of healing bruises, not the red and black of imminent death. The hole left by the shard of wood had disappeared, replaced by a pink scar.

Anders was very good at what he did. They all were.

Hawke kneeled down. The elf was breathing more easily now. His face had relaxed, and beneath the blood spatters and filth, without his eternal scowl and glower, he looked younger than Hawke had thought possible.

_I am not a good target for such interests..._

_Oh, Fenris._

"Damn. Varric seems to have some trouble with his leg. I think I better take a look at that," Anders said and, grunting with the effort, pushed himself to his feet and went to the dwarf's side.

Hawke brushed the white hair from the elf's closed eyes. The skin beneath his hand was cold and clammy. Conjuring blood back into a man's veins was part of Anders's talent, but Fenris was still pale beneath his tan.

Stripped of his armor, Fenris had the type of build that certain patrons of the Blooming Rose would have paid fortunes for. He was slender and athletic, as if poised between the limberness of youth and the strength of maturity. A human male would have maintained such a figure for a short time before fully growing up; Fenris would probably always look like that.

Unable to hold back his curiosity, Hawke touched the white stripes on the elf's chin. Surprisingly, they were thick and hard, and coarse against his callused fingers – not unlike the surface of a fine file. Hawke realized they went far deeper than ordinary tattoos, perhaps all the way to his bones. What had it been like, receiving them? Horrible, for all he knew.

For a warrior, Fenris had very few scars, and those he possessed were old and faded. Were they from a time before the ritual that had bonded the lyrium into his flesh?

Suddenly the elf turned his head and moaned. His chest shuddered with a startled breath. Hawke felt a strange tingle in his fingers, and pulled them back as if from a stove.

_What the hell was that?_

The green eyes cracked open.

"Hawke," Fenris rasped, still breathing a bit uneasy.

"Forgive me. I was just trying to make sure you're all right."

"By petting my markings? They'll survive, as will I." The elf moved his right hand to touch the spot where the gaping hole had been. "So... the abomination stitched me up after all... did he?"

"We didn't have much choice."

Fenris was quiet for a moment.

"Thank you for saving my life, mage," he said then, with surprisingly little of his usual sarcasm. "But if you touch me again, I will probably have to kill you."

Hawke frowned. "You could have told me about this... skin complication of yours. Makes me feel a bit foolish, knowing about it after all this time."

"It was none of your business," Fenris said, but strangely his voice was still devoid of any resentment. He lifted his head from the stone and, with one hand on his midsection as if to make sure everything stayed in place, started to rise. Instinctively Hawke reached out to help, then pulled back his hand.

"No, I guess not. But for what it's worth... I'm sorry."

"Hawke," the elf said.

Fenris was leaning on his left hand, with his back turned toward the mage. For a moment Hawke had an excellent view of the tattoos reaching from his shoulders like some sort of wings down his back, to his narrow waist where they disappeared beneath the dull, dark leather or his suit.

"Yes?" he asked as the elf failed to continue.

"Never mind." Amazingly, Fenris was not only able to get to his feet, but to stay there, as well. "We should move on. The darkspawn could be back any minute. Give me a moment to get ready, and we can leave."

* * *

><p><em>"Marvelous!"<em>

_"Bravo!"_

_In the center of the applause, Fenris watched as two servants dragged one more mutilated corpse from the small amphitheatre. A thick pool of blood covered the stone floor; warm and slippery against his bare feet, it glittered in the sunlight that shafted through an opening in the roof._

_"You have outdone yourself again, Danarius," cried one of the magisters reclining on the soft cushions that covered the steps that ascended from the stage. "You must publish your studies! It would be a crime against the Imperium to keep such knowledge to yourself!"_

_"In time, my friend." Danarius smiled, and Fenris knew his master would amuse himself with his newly inflated status before sharing the almost forgotten art of infusing lyrium into living flesh – if he ever would._

_"The ritual... it is a high form of blood magic, isn't it?" a female magister asked, eyeing Fenris from head to toe. The elf was only wearing a pair of black breeches, to allow the audience to observe his markings; a task made less easy by the blood that now stained almost every inch of his body._

_While blood magic was ostensibly forbidden in the Imperium, the reality was a different matter. The magisters Danarius had invited to his house tonight were all practitioners of the ancient art, and there were no secrets between them – at least about this matter._

_"The amount of living substance needed is part of the high cost. Lyrium does not take into skin naturally. Every ounce of it must be coaxed into place by a most intricate discourse with the underworld. What keeps the lyrium bound to my lovely Fenris now is, in effect, a daemonic bond, not unlike a mage's agreement with an esteemed spirit of the Fade."_

_"It is permanent, the bond, isn't it?"_

_"I assure you, it is as impossible to separate him from his markings now as it is to separate us from our spirit protectors, and as deadly to try."_

_"Are the markings very... painful?" another magister asked, his voice clearly betraying what sort of answer he hoped._

_"I believe that is a question for my little wolf to answer," Danarius said and turned toward the elf. "Tell me, pretty one. Does the lyrium give you pain?"_

_"Yes, master," Fenris answered._

_"Fenris, you must give us a little more than that. These are very distinguished guests." Danarius's voice was cheerful, yet it carried a threat only those who knew him well would recognize._

_"The markings ache every waking hour, master," Fenris said. "And when someone touches them, it feels like the slice of a knife."_

_Some of the magisters murmured in delight. Sadistic games were a usual pastime among the nobility of Minrathous._

_"The presentation is nearly at an end, my friends," Danarius said. "But I have saved a very special treat for the last. Hadriana, if you please."_

_Fenris, who until now had listened to the exchange without an expression, eyed his master uneasily. He had no idea what the man was talking about._

_Behind him, he heard Danarius's apprentice extract herself from among the guests and step down to the stage. He could not help but wonder what Danarius had planned next. Something painful, undoubtedly. Maybe his master would demonstrate what they had just discussed; when the other slaves cleaned Fenris or dressed him, every passing brush of their fingers against the lyrium was agony. His master seemed perversely intrigued by the idea that Fenris would never again be able to touch anyone without excruciating pain. But displaying that to the audience would hardly merit a spectacle. During the last few weeks, Fenris had grown so accustomed to those occasional knife cuts that he now rarely even flinched at them. Would he have to pretend, to please his master?_

_"What I am going to show you is a most curious effect of the lyrium bond," Danarius said, obviously pleased at the effect his words had on his audience. "One I believe he has no knowledge of, himself."_

_What on Thedas was the man talking about?_

_Fenris turned his head to look at Hadriana. There she was, her familiar blue eyes heavily outlined in black kohl, her slender, long curves encased in thick amber silk. She smiled at him, an evil little smile that almost... almost triggered a memory._

_Panic he could not explain was rising in his chest. It would have been the most natural thing in the world to flee. But flee where? And what was natural in any of this? While his mind rebelled, his body seemed to remember what his mind didn't. It is useless to fight, it said. It will only make things worse._

_An almost reverent silence had fallen, as Hadriana came to stand right behind the elf, close enough for him to sense the heat of her body. Her slippers and the hem of her robe were quickly soaked in the reeking blood at their feet. They were almost of a height. Why did her proximity feel so... familiar?_

_"Go ahead, Hadriana," Danarius urged._

_Hadriana smiled. His heart racing in fear, Fenris turned away from her. But the anticipation on his master's face, and on that of every magister in the room, with all their attention transfixed upon him... it was even worse. He closed his eyes, and braced himself against the pain that would soon follow._

_Her fingers brushed at the nape of his neck, and his breath hitched._

_She was barely touching him, yet it might as well have been the swing of a hammer._

_Pain? No... nothing so merciful._

_"As you can see... Most curious," Danarius crooned to his captive audience._

_It was just a whispering caress where the lyrium markings crawled their way under his growing hair... But for the effect it had on him, it was all the touches in the world combined into one. A wave of pleasure traveled through him, straight into his loins, where it settled like a red-hot ember. In disbelief of what was happening, he tensed as Hadriana's warm hand pressed against the base of his neck. She splayed her fingers and drew them down the length of his back. His muscles spasmed under her touch. Sweat was freely breaking through his skin. Between his legs, his cock stiffened and strained against his tightly wound linen smallclothes._

No...

_Hadriana pressed herself against his back and planted a soft kiss on the point of his ear. She slid her hands around him and raked her carefully manicured nails down his chest, covered in caking blood. His legs trembled and he had to lean on her to stay on his feet. "Lovely," she whispered and licked a spatter of blood from the side of his chin. Unable to help himself, he groaned._

No! Maker. Anything but this...

_The people around them were fading into distance. Danarius's voice came to him as if through water, or time. "This is something I encountered in the old writings. The lyrium responds positively to a mage's touch. He will find the experience... most pleasant."_

_The mocking understatement cut through Fenris's pride like a scalpel. Hadriana's left hand drew a path of fire down his hard middle and found its way under his breeches. The completely ridiculous pleasure as her palm brushed against his erection made him dizzy. Her warm fingers sneaked into his smallclothes, pulled him free, wrapped themselves around him. Her other hand circled his chest, pressed his back against the silk that covered her small breasts and flat stomach. She bit her teeth into the sweeping curve of his ear, and stroked him._

_It was too much. Fenris cried and arched against her, and came. He didn't have to remember to know it was the longest and hardest orgasm he had ever had. It seemed to last forever and while it did, there was only Hadriana's touch and the raw ecstasy that, for a moment, seemed like the purpose of his whole existence._

_After a small eternity he came to, panting and shuddering all over. The real world gradually imposed itself over his inner turmoil. The earth hadn't shattered, sun was still shining on the blood-covered floor through the amphitheatre roof; the magisters were laughing and murmuring in excitement around him, some of them obviously flushed with arousal._

_Without a word, Hadriana stepped back. With her support gone, it took all of Fenris's strength to stay on his feet. He turned his face to the side, fought to keep tears of shame from finding their way to his cheeks._

_"With this, I conclude my presentation," Danarius said. "Should you wish to discuss with me privately, feel free to approach my assistant for an appointment. Have a pleasant day, my friends and colleagues. May the Fade grant its blessings upon our endeavors."_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Skipping here to Chapter 2. My mind rebelled against the idea that Hawke, who is rather good at taking the initiative, would have let three years pass without wringing some sort of resolution out of the situation. So, in order to not have to rewrite the whole plot, I sent Fenris away for three years. He left right after the Deep Roads._

_It makes a lot of sense to me that Hawke and Isabela would be fuck buddies. Thus, I made it so. In other words, __there's some Hawke/Isabela in this chapter. If you can call it that._

* * *

><p>Hawke liked to think that he was not an idiot. Which did not explain why he had imagined that nobility would basically mean living in a big house, having bags of money and not being forced to take orders from anyone. And lots of booty.<p>

Now that he actually was in possession an estate and a claim to a title in Kirkwall, well – the Amell House was big enough, sure, and there was coin in his pocket to buy anyone in the Blooming Rose (with the exception of Madame Lusine, perhaps), but the not having to take orders part... did not work as he had expected.

Actually, taking orders did not seem like such a bad choice any more, now that he was instead expected to kiss every ass from here to Antiva.

"Knowing noble families and maintaining relations with them is part of your new status, dear," his mother had said. "And no, you cannot let Bodahn handle it. He can certainly help you, after all he seems to know everyone in the city, but this is your responsibility now."

After the eleventh insipid product of today's correspondence had been folded and closed with a bit of wax with his seal on it, Hawke was actually glad when Bodahn's gong announced a nameless guest. Most likely it meant some hack who would try to get him to invest in a dragonling-infested mine or 'male enhancements', or Orlesian tapestries which would then mysteriously sink in the sea during transit. But right now he was in a bad enough mood to enjoy the thought of verbally reducing someone to a sobbing wreck.

Hawke pulled a jacket over his shirt and smoothed down his hair and beard, which he had the tendency to muss into complete disarray while he wrote. Then he left his room and descended the stairs into the hall, where his mabari gave him a hopeful look as he headed toward the foyer. "Gamlen is coming over for afternoon tea today, dear," he heard his mother call from the corner, where she was choosing a design for their new front gate from a series of drawings, presented to her by a blacksmith's apprentice.

_Again in need of some coin after a night out, is Uncle Gamlen?_

With his mood even worse than before, Hawke stepped into the foyer.

Some very particularly chosen words died in his throat as he saw his guest, and was transported back to the day when, three years ago, he and his companions had arrived back in Kirkwall after the Deep Roads expedition.

_I shall see you tomorrow to decide on the loot, then?_ he had asked at the city gates, wanting nothing more than a bath and to sleep for days.

Everyone had been too tired to even fling bad jokes around. Mumbling a brief farewell, his companions had unloaded from the cart to go their separate ways. Sleeping had been almost impossible in the Deep Roads, and the few hours of rest they had managed on their way back to the city had just left them all stiff and cranky.

Before driving the wagon off toward Lowtown, he had noticed Fenris – bedraggled as any of them – looking at him strangely from the side of the road. But he hadn't had the energy to wonder about it.

Next day, the elf hadn't appeared at their meeting. Nor had he been seen the day after, or the day after that. When a week had passed, Hawke had finally taken the trip to Hightown and Danarius's manor. He had found the place deserted, with cold ashes in the fireplace and the days-old remains of a breakfast on the table – drying bread and chicken bones, the edges of a molding cheese, all gnawed at by rats.

They say that you only truly know the worth of something when it is gone. During his nine-and-twenty years, Hawke had thought he'd become quite the expert at loss and betrayal, and moving on. But right now he might as well have been standing in that crumbling Hightown manor again, looking at the disheveled bed, wondering how many nights it was since the elf had last slept in it... knowing that Isabela had been right.

"Fenris."

The elf froze, his gauntleted hand dropping from the surface of the front door where it had rested, apparently ready to push it open.

Despite a sunny morning, it was not very bright in the foyer, but from what Hawke's unadjusted eyes could see, Fenris did not look much changed from three years ago. The broadsword at his back was different, of Orlesian make, and here and there Hawke noticed some newly made pieces in his gear, but he still wore the old suit of armor, and his hair was the same – a tousled mop of soft white growth that looked like it had been hacked at with his own sword, yet somehow managed to look nice on him.

"So, you've finally come to claim your gold?" Hawke asked, his own voice cold and unfamiliar in his ears.

"My... gold?" Fenris still wasn't looking at him.

"I've invested it for you. I don't have enough to cover your share of the loot here, but I can get it for you today. I just need to talk to my accountant first."

"What are you talking about, Hawke?"

Some part of Hawke's mind noticed that the elf's ears pointed lower than he had remembered. Why would he recall something like that wrong? It made no sense.

Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe Carver's prophecy had come true, and he had finally been found by a strong enough demon.

"Your share of the Deep Roads. That's why you came, isn't it?"

"What?" The elf finally turned toward him. Hawke felt something break inside his chest, something he had worked years to repair. With one look from those moss green eyes, he might as well never have tried.

"I don't give a piss about my share of anything!"

Hawke's tongue felt like something dead in his mouth. Was it a demon, what stood in front of him now? Surely a spirit of the Fade would not try to reproduce the elf's resentment quite so faithfully. "I suppose I've become too used to being asked for money. After all, it's -"

"I need your help, Hawke."

The look on the elf's face... Hawke had seen it only once before. All those years ago, when Fenris had asked for his help against his former master, before Hawke's particular brand of talent had been revealed.

_Please, help me do this._

"It's Danarius, isn't it?"

Fenris paced. His bare feet made no sound on the floor. "I thought he had given up. Three years... and no sign of him. But last week..." His gauntleted hands opened and closed. "I was in Highever, and the bounty hunters came for me. I... nearly did not escape. They are more vicious than before. Whatever has kept Danarius from tracking me down, it's over."

Hawke felt a mask fall over his face. It was either that... Or break down and do something horrible. "What, are we friends, now? You realize that this is going to cost you?"

"Is my share of the Deep Roads enough?"

Hawke paused. He did not need the gold. He had said it out of spite, and now felt like Fenris was refusing his share of their past just to do the same. "Yes," he said slowly. "But why should I trust you? For all I know, you could be working for the Order. Luring me into a trap so the templars can lock me up. Maker knows they've been trying for three years, ever since I came out in the open. And they can protect you from Danarius."

Halfway through his words, Fenris had stopped pacing, and now stared at him like he had just turned crazy. "That's just... Don't be absurd."

Hawke felt his temper rise. He knew he was channeling a multitude of very mixed feelings into anger, but could not help it. "Why not? Is it so far fetched to suspect someone is using you to get to me? You never pretended to not hate me for what I am."

"I don't hate you! Why are you being unreasonable?"

"Me?" Hawke laughed without mirth. "_I_ wasn't the one who left without a word. And yet, here you are now, asking me to save your arse the first moment you get in trouble. Should I feel flattered?"

"You think it was easy, coming here?"

"Easy enough to do the opposite three years ago."

"Garrett?" asked a pleasant female voice from behind Hawke's back. "Won't you introduce me to your friend?"

Hawke turned to see his mother standing in the doorway. Her hand was resting on the neck of the great mabari, who gazed amicably from Fenris to Hawke, great pink tongue lolling as he wagged his small stump of a tail. Leandra was the picture of polite calm, impeccable as always in her discreet, yet stylish dress, her grey hair in a bun at the nape of her neck.

Fenris stepped back. "Forgive me, madam," he said and gave her a surprisingly suave bow, one that displayed his slender figure to a great effect. A gesture that had been hammered into his backbone as a slave? "I was not aware of your presence."

"Mother... this is Fenris," Hawke said through his teeth. "Fenris, my mother, Leandra Amell."

"Charmed," she said and gave his son a look that spoke a thousand words – none of them very favorable. "Please, do come in. I apologize for my son's manners. I have sent for some tea to be served in the library. Could you take your guest there, Garrett? I'm sure you prefer to continue your business discussion in a more... private setting."

To his chagrin, Hawke realized that their voices must have carried to every ear in the hall. He thanked her, and Leandra inclined her head to them before leaving to decide whether she wanted curved or straight fixtures for the lanterns.

A few minutes later Fenris was standing in front of the library's great fireplace, looking at the bronze statue above it with a cup of tea in his hand. "That thing... It reminds me of the old god relics in Tevinter," he said. "How can you stand having its eyes follow you around the room?"

Hawke had been musing over what a strange sight the elf made in the middle of his home, garbed in the foreign suit of armor, drinking tea from one of his mother's best cups without even removing his gauntlets.

"I have no idea where it's from," he said and leaned back in his chair. "It's just something I bought." He stretched his long legs in front of him, one ankle over the other. He was wearing a pair of soft leather shoes Leandra had made for him to wear at home. Like so many times before he couldn't help wondering about Fenris's bare feet, watching the tattoos that circled his ankles and toes. All elves had dainty feet, and Fenris was no exception. Hawke remembered the shards of glass that had still been lying on the floor when, three years ago, he had left Fenris's mansion. Was the lack of shoes just another restriction placed by Danarius upon his slave? Kirkwall climate – or Maker forbid, that of Ferelden – was not suited for barefoot traipsing, yet the elf seemed to cling to the habit, like he clung to the gear that did such a poor job of covering up his strange appearance.

"You've done well," the elf said. "This is a fine house."

"Let's get to the point, shall we. You're paying me. What do you want me to do?"

Fenris put his cup on the fireplace mantel. "I don't know when Danarius will strike. I... thought I might work for you again, until its over. You do still need help to handle your business, don't you?"

"That's an odd proposal. You're paying me to get rid of someone, then offer to work for me in the meanwhile?"

"I can't pay you enough to make you my bodyguard", the elf said. "Re-establishing our former arrangement seems to me like the most logical alternative. I understand you have no reason to want to help me personally, but I also recall you found my services useful."

"I did. But this time, it might not be enough."

Distaste darkened the elf's features. He tilted his head in a defiant gesture that, unintentionally, served to draw attention to his long neck and the elaborate white designs branded there. "You want me to beg? Fine. I'm begging you. I do not know whom else to turn to. When it is done, I will go, if you wish. You're the only one I know who can take on the kind of hunters Danarius throws at me... perhaps even Danarius himself."

_If that's the voice he uses to beg... I fear to think how he threatens._

"I see your flattery has improved," Hawke said blandly.

"Name your price. I will do anything to not be captured again."

_Not _ quite_ anything, I think_. Hawke leaned forward and steepled his hands above his knees. "It's not about gold. If I am to trust you, I need more than just coin. You need to tell me more about Danarius, and how you escaped from him."

Fenris took a step back. "That is something I have not told anyone."

"'Anything,' you said. You will tell me now."

"Will I?" The elf's eyes flashed green fire. Not for the first time, Hawke wondered what sort of a slave he had made - whether his eyes had flashed like that at Danarius's commands, or if he had just followed them like a machine, killing without a conscience. It was hard to imagine Fenris being passive, but then again, what did he really know about the elf?

Fenris turned away and paced a little, than raised his head, looking this time toward the upper floor of the library, where sunlight streamed through the windows and bathed the room in its glow. "You have... changed, Hawke. I am not sure whether it for the better. Yet... I suppose it is not too much to ask. I do not know whether this is a coincidence, but it _is_ almost the anniversary of my escape. _Astia valla femundis_."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. How much do you know of Seheron?"

"That it's hot and rainy, and that there are jungles and Qunari? And, apparently, strange looking elves?"

"Hmm. Not all as strange as I. As you have no doubt heard, the Imperium and the Qunari have fought over the island for centuries, now. I was there with Danarius during a Qunari attack. The battle was... fierce. I managed to get him to a ship - but was left behind, myself. I barely got out of the city alive."

"There's nothing like war for covering one's escape."

"I had no intention of escaping. That time."

Fenris told him of Fog Warriors, then – the native forest people of Seheron who fought to free their land from both the Qunari and the Imperium. They had taken the elf in, nursed him back to health – and then Danarius had returned, and ordered him to kill them all. And he had. He told of escaping his wounded master, without even knowing why – knowing only that he had to get away. He had taken a ship to the mainland, fled with Danarius only a week or two behind on his trail.

The tale was told without much emotion. But Hawke could tell that the elf's calm exterior was carefully calculated not to let anything through.

"I have to wonder why you stayed with Danarius as long as you did. How could you stand doing such things for him?"

"You have not been a slave. I did not dream of freedom, or wonder at possibilities. I thought only of my master's desires, and what the next hour would bring..."

"So, you're saying you weren't responsible for your actions?"

The elf spun on his heels. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he snarled at Hawke. "I had no recollection who I was, what I was. Away from Danarius, I hardly even existed. When I escaped, I was a hand severed from its arm, with no understanding of what freedom could be, except the vague idea the Fog Warriors had given me. They were bold, strong, free with their affections. I was in awe of them, and owed them everything. And I turned on them, even so. Am I responsible for killing them? What does that even mean? The bandits and mercenaries you kill are men and women who have lives of their own. Obviously you are not punished for it. Do you then spend your time moaning over their fate, making up to their families? If not, what is this responsibility of yours? Regret? I can regret killing those warriors until the day I die, but it won't bring them back."

Hawke sat up, hiding his reaction to the elf's bitter outburst. Three years ago it would have been unthinkable for Fenris to speak to him so openly. Maybe he really was desperate.

"Gripping stuff. You should write it down."

"You think they teach slaves how to read?" Fenris fought to control his ire. "Bah. Ignore me. Will you help me or not? If the answer is no, I don't want to waste any more time here."

"I'll help you," Hawke said evenly.

Angry as he was, Fenris could not help but look relieved. "Ah. That is... good. Thank you, Hawke."

The mage shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for pretty elves in distress. And frankly, I'll use any opportunity to escape what my life has become."

Fenris eyed him almost curiously. "So... What is it like? Not all you hoped, I take it?"

"Well, the roof doesn't leak, the food is better, and I don't have to work for small-time smugglers. And my mother seems happy enough, now that she's come to terms with the fact that Carver left. But I spend half my time responding to inane letters and attending pointless occasions with highborn idiots who can spend hours simpering vapid compliments at each other. Despite the fact that the ladies find me irresistible, you can probably imagine that I'm not very good at it."

"You still visit the Hanged Man? What about the others?"

"To my mother's horror, yes. Varric now has a permanent suite there and pens serials and haggles on imports for a living. For all I know, he's planning to buy the whole establishment. Of Merrill I haven't heard in weeks, she hardly leaves her place. Aveline is still the captain of the guard. Who else? Oh, Anders used all his gold on his clinic and is now going on about some paranoid delusion of his, he calls it the 'Tranquil Solution'. Isabela... Well. She currently believes her relic has been procured by some collector who has his secret stash in Ostwick. I hope it's not holey socks and poems, this time. Not very exciting, that particular story. But I'll take what I can get."

The elf was silent for a moment. "For what it's worth, I shouldn't have left," he said then, reluctantly. "Not like that. It was... dishonorable."

"Then why did you?"

"I had my reasons." Apparently, the truth game was over. Fenris turned to leave, then looked back. "Oh, before I go. Do you by any chance know what has become of my former residence? Has it been reclaimed?"

Hawke shrugged. "Aveline said that the city is looking into reclaiming it, but as the ownership of the place is rather unclear, they haven't done anything about it yet. I suppose they want to avoid creating a diplomatic incident. For all I know, the house is still vacant. And in worse repair than ever."

"Good. Then you will find me there. Until then, Hawke."

Long after Fenris had left, Hawke still remained in the library, looking at the spot where the elf had been standing. The cup of tea Fenris had used was still on the mantel, the single evidence that he had really been here, that it hadn't been just a strange dream, like all the others Hawke had had about the elf during the last three years.

* * *

><p>That night, after leaving Uncle Gamlen and his mother to work out the details of the latest addendum to Gamlen's already quite extensive loan, Hawke headed straight to the Hanged Man, where he sat at Varric's table silently destroying a bottle of whiskey while Varric and Anders bickered about politics. With Aveline more and more tied up by her duties, Merrill holed up in her apartment and Carver in the Order, there had lately been at most four of them present for these nighttime gatherings.<p>

"It wouldn't work, for the Free Marches to have one ruler," Varric said. "It would be like having only one chamber pot for a family of eight. The pot would always be in the wrong room when someone needs it."

"It's working for most every other realm in Thedas," Anders said. "And they're all far ahead of Free Marches in prosperity. And, it's harder for petty despots to turn things upside down, when all the vassals have shared interests in the land. With one ruler, there will be less inner conflict."

Trying not to listen too hard, Hawke downed another tumbler of the pungent spirit.

"Sure. Like in Ferelden or Orlais. I hear you, Blondie. What's wrong with how the things are now? It's interesting. And I like... interesting."

"You must be joking! The Viscount cannot control the templars. Even Grand Cleric Elthina has more sway over The Order than he does. How can the madness here stop, if the supposed ruler silently condones it by refusing to have an opinion?"

"And here we go again..."

Hawke reached for his bottle, and found it empty.

"Oh, look. All out of whiskey," he said. "I think I'm going to get more. Don't wait for me. Not that you ever do."

He pushed himself up and left the room, swaying a bit on his feet. Varric and Anders barely acknowledged his departure.

Upon descending the stairs to the crowded taproom, Hawke was immediately accosted by Isabela, who for some reason put her arms around his waist and purred at him.

"_Hawke!_ I was just thinking about coming to see you!" she said in a suspiciously loud voice. Her eyes were shining at him in a way that, even in his inebriated state, made him immediately skeptical of her motives.

"Why?" he asked, wondering if he was too drunk, or if the situation really made no sense.

"Help me," she hissed to him from the corner of her mouth. Only then did Hawke notice a group of dark-skinned Rivaini sailors hanging close. One of them had a bloodied nose, another was crying. The others looked just... ready to do something nasty. All were making wild gestures in her direction and arguing loudly in their native tongue.

"It's not like you can't handle six men in a bar fight," he mumbled back and took a little step to regain his whiskey-compromised balance as she pressed even closer.

"Garrett, you naughty ogre-slayer, you!" she exclaimed, her arms now around his neck. "The one with the bloodied nose is my husband's cousin," she whispered frantically. "They think I had him killed. Please, I'll tell the story later. I can't make more of a scene than I already had to. I won't ever be able to go back to Dairsmuid otherwise."

One hand still around Hawke, she turned to look at the Rivaini sailors who, by now, seemed to be on the verge of reaching an agreement - one that would have nasty consequences for her.

"Well, it's been fun, boys, but I have to go," she said. "Me and my friend have important business to discuss in the back room. Oh, did you already hear the story about Hawke single-handedly killing a dragon? No? It's absolutely riveting. You should go listen to it. I think I heard it being told in... that table over there."

Adding a few Rivaini words that made the men frown and look back and forth in confusion, she dragged the rather befuddled Hawke to the corridor. One of the men shouted something after her, but none tried to follow.

"Sweet sands, but that was awkward," Isabela said when they had reached the door to her room. "Thank you. You know I wouldn't do that if it wasn't serious."

"Yes, you would," he said and pulled her against him. "You've done it three times just to get rid of an annoying admirer, you fox."

"So... you've been counting?" she smiled. "However... I think that this time, you deserve a reward."

"Oh?"

She opened the door to her room and pushed him inside.

"Yes, you big lout," she said and kicked the door shut. "You've been moping all evening. The least I can do is to cheer you up a bit."

To tell the truth, Hawke wasn't really in the mood for Isabela's kind of reward. His plan had been to drink himself to stupor and then pass out, and he was already way too far in the stupor part to really perform. However, Isabela seemed very insistent... And maybe it would take his mind off other matters. Hopefully he would at least be able to rise to the occasion.

The Rivaini smiled as she led him backwards through the small room, her hands on his chest.

"I can't go back to the taproom for a while, anyway," she said and pushed him to the bed. "Might as well use the time for something... entertaining."

"Who am I to argue," Hawke said. With a familiar smirk, she climbed to sit on top of him.

She leaned down to kiss him, her scent of leather and coconut oil enveloping his senses. Her breasts pressed against his studded jerkin and lower down he could feel her strong thighs saddle his hips. Usually Isabela's proximity was more than enough to kindle an instant reaction, but now... Trying to match her pace, he lifted his hands to her thighs and stroked them up under her tunic, to her firm, round bottom. She smiled and shifted on top of him, then frowned.

"Something wrong?" she asked. "Usually you have a bit more wind in your sails at this point."

Hawke cleared his throat. What Isabela meant was that normally he would already have had her pinned against some piece of furniture or the other, clothes hanging open and either giggling or moaning. Now he was just... lying there like a beached whale. "Sorry. I must be more drunk than I thought."

Her eyes glittered gold and brown in the dim light of a lantern.

"I think you need a bit of... encouragement." She started to crawl down the bed. Hawke stretched his shoulders and tried to relax as she pulled at the buckles and straps of his gear.

Usually the mere thought of having her down there would have been more than enough to get him going. If she ever tired of adventuring or playing godmother to her 'protégées', she could earn a queen's living by just that one talent alone. But tonight...

Damn, it was no use. No matter how much he drank or how good Isabela was, there was no way he could stop thinking about what had happened in the morning.

He could almost hear it now, that low-pitched, gravelly voice growling in defiance at him. They way Fenris had raised his chin, suspicious and wild like a half-tamed beast...

"That's more like it," Isabela murmured.

"Shit," Hawke whispered and rubbed the back of his head against the mattress.

How many times had he already repeated (and most likely, exaggerated) every detail of the morning in his head?

Fenris turning to look at him through the foyer, the white markings glowing on his tanned skin... Green eyes daring him to disagree, the full mouth twisted in disdain for something he'd said. Fenris pacing across the room, confident and wary at the same time, his bare feet making no sound on the floor... And again, that deep voice, and his hands were gesturing as he spoke, long fingers moving with the softness of a butterfly's wing, encased in steel claws. The white lines in his palms shone from the shadow of his gauntlets. Were they hardened like his, those hands... or soft, uncallused because of the lyrium that kept him from having scars? How would it feel, to be touched by them..?

Hawke still remembered, from all those years ago, the feel of Fenris's markings against his fingers. What would it be like, to turn that fleeting contact into a caress... to touch what he had once, in passing, seen in the Deep Roads? How would the sandpaper surface of those markings feel against his lips? What would the elf's skin taste like on his tongue..?

"Maker," Hawke groaned.

Isabela yelped in surprise as he pulled her up and rolled her under him. With no pretense of trying to please her, he fumbled at her underclothes. It was far too fast for her to match his speed, but she did not resist, not even when he guided himself in, or started to thrust into her.

It did not last long. Hoping he was at least not crying the elf's name out loud he came, then leaned on his shaking arms on top of her, trying to catch the vestiges of his self-respect, or at least his breath.

Isabela let her feet drop against the mattress. "I have no idea who you were fucking just now, big boy," she said. "But it sure as hell wasn't me."

"Sorry," he panted.

"'Sorry?' Oh. Just what a girl needs. Lousy sex, crowned by a half-assed attempt at an apology. If you wanted to pretend I'm someone else, why not just say so? It's not like a bit of role-play would be the weirdest thing to have happened between us."

With a casual display of agility she twisted and kicked him from top of her - not hard enough to send him flying to the floor, but not kindly, either.

"Who was it, anyway?" she asked when she cleaned herself up at the washstand. "Some pretty thing from Hightown? Eww, the thought makes me itch."

Hawke almost told her, then realized what a bad idea it probably was. He couldn't do that to her. Not even in this piss drunk, sorry state. And so he just sat on the edge of the bed and tried to master the guilty hammering of his heart while she checked her daggers and combed her fingers through her hair.

"Fine. Don't tell me, then," she snapped and walked to the door. "But don't expect any favors either for a while, all right? It'll take a few days to forget you... stole my ship to do someone else's job. Or whatever. Shit, I can't even make a decent joke right now."

She slammed the door shut behind her and was gone. Hawke fell back to the bed and stared at the ceiling.

It was a long time since he had felt this miserable. And he had a bad feeling that things weren't about to get any better.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I'm not totally happy that (aside from the flashback) this chapter turned out to be just a retelling, but, bah. __At least I'm abusing the details. And Hawke's sanity. It is what it is._

_Thanks for the reviews. Back to work tomorrow so I'll probably update less often from now on but, hey, there might finally be some Hawke/Fenris action in the next chapter..._

__A bit of mild Hadriana/Fenris non-con here again.__

* * *

><p>"Hunters," Fenris warned.<p>

The road to Sundermount was plagued by bandits, but Hawke knew immediately that the elf was not speaking of ordinary lowlives. He pulled his staff from his back, and saw Varric and Merrill also get ready for a fight.

For the better part of the day, the four of them had been travelling to fetch an ancient _elvhen_ keepsake from the Sundermount elves – something Merrill needed to complete a pet project of hers, a mirror that would presumably reveal some of her people's ancient lore. Hawke had his doubts whether the _eluvian_ would ever come to anything, and he also doubted Keeper Marethari would just hand over her clan's treasures without trouble... but it _was_ the spring ball season, and Hawke was desperate to get away from the city and his mother's schemes to see him married before the year was through. "You're nine and twenty, dear," she had lamented this very morning, as he prepared his gear for travel. "You should start to think about your responsibilities to the Amell line, and not just this... chasing after elves and dragons and corrupted templars." Had Hawke not known that half of her pestering was just worry for his safety, he might actually have been annoyed.

Fenris lifted his face toward a cliff that shadowed the crossroads they had just reached. Hawke followed the direction of his eyes to see a handful of men standing at the cliff's edge. Their leader was a hardened warrior, obviously an Imperial officer, accompanied by a young mage and some archers. A cold southern wind had started to blow as the afternoon grew late, and it heaved the men's cloaks, revealing their weapons.

"You are in possession of stolen property," the officer yelled to them in heavily accented common tongue. "Back off now, and you'll be spared."

"Is that your first offer?" Hawke shouted back and brought the butt of his staff to the ground with a casual swing. "Because it's not a good one."

"I won't repeat myself. Back away from the slave, now!"

"I'm not your slave!" Fenris yelled, losing control over the rage that triggered his markings. It never ceased to amaze Hawke, the incandescent blue fire that flared from the elf's skin when it happened. But there was no time to admire it now; the Imperial officer had obviously deduced that the negotiations were at an end, and gestured for his men to attack.

The fight was harder than what they'd come to expect from Fenris's trackers years ago. These weren't just ordinary bounty hunters. They were Imperial soldiers, the personal troops of a powerful magister. And Hawke did not have to ask to know which magister that might be.

When the battle was over, Fenris spared them from the usual problem of dealing with wounded enemies. Without a word, the elf went from one man to the other and put his sword through anyone who still moaned or moved.

"That's a bit harsh," Varric muttered to Hawke. "What's wrong with asking for bounties?"

"You really want them to live and take the story to Danarius?" Fenris snarled from across the road.

Varric shook his head. "Damn, I always forget those knife-ears can hear a mouse squeal in a whorehouse."

The young mage Hawke had seen on top of the cliff was also still alive, lying face down in the dirt of the road. His robes were badly scorched from the firestorm Hawke had conjured upon him and the archers before they could leave their vantage point. Fenris kneeled beside him and pulled the mage's head up by his hair – or by what was left of it. An ugly burn ran down the side of the man's face. He was obviously in a great deal of pain.

"Where is he?"

"Please, don't kill me!" the mage cried in terror. He was even younger than Hawke had thought – not even twenty. He had been a pretty lad. The side of his face that wasn't completely destroyed almost resembled... Bethany.

Fenris slammed the boy's head against the rocky ground. He screamed.

"Tell me!"

Blood was running from the mage's broken nose. Agony and tears twisted the ruin of his face. "I don't know! I don't know, I swear! Hadriana brought us! She's at the h-holding caves not far from here. I can show you the way! Don't kill me, serrah!" The young mage was babbling now – in a state where men would tell anything to live a moment longer. But Hawke could tell he was not lying.

"No need. I know the ones you speak of."

"Then let me go, I beg you! I swear I won't -"

"You chose the wrong master." Fenris twisted the boy's head in his hands. There was a nasty crunch, and the weeping and pleading stopped.

"Hadriana." The name came from the elf's mouth like something sickening he had been forced to eat, something that was now trying to find its way out of his throat. He got on his feet and walked away from the boy's corpse, his back a forbidding, tense line that invited no questions .

"This is someone you know?" Hawke inquired mildly from where he'd been watching, leaning on his staff.

Fenris clenched his hands, almost shaking with barely contained rage. But he did answer. "My old master's apprentice. A sniveling social climber that would sell her own children if it would please Danarius. If she's here, it's at his bidding. I knew he was after me again! We must go quickly, before Hadriana has the chance to prepare."

Hawke looked at the carnage around them. When the Imperial officer had called for his men, about twelve soldiers had emerged from the rocky hillside. They had all been slaughtered, and the sight was not pretty. "Her men are dead, Fenris. It's not far to Sundermount. We can spend the night at Marethari's camp, then -"

Fenris turned to look at Hawke. His eyes widened. "No! We must go now. If the bitch is here, I won't let her slip out of my grasp!"

"But it'll soon be evening!" Merrill interrupted.

"I know Hadriana," Fenris said, still fighting to control his anger. "How do you think she knew where to find us? For all I know, she could be watching us right now through her filthy magic! By the morning she'll be gone. And next time, there will be more men to capture me. Do you think we can keep this up forever, Hawke? What if they come for us when we are injured or separated? If we go now, we can get to her before she has time to crawl to another hiding place."

Hawke rubbed his aching forehead.

"I also seem to recall I'm paying you for this, quite handsomely," Fenris continued in a resentful tone that had gotten all too familiar during the last three weeks.

Well, at least this might bring some sort of resolution to the situation which was slowly reducing Hawke into a sorry wreck of a human being. Taking the elf everywhere with him might have been nice, had it just meant getting to admire his pretty sneer and nice legs. But the emotional baggage was getting a tad heavy to carry, and lately Hawke had started to fear he would either become a hopeless alcoholic or turn himself in to the templars before the job was done.

"All right. Lead the way."

"I was hoping you would come to your senses." Fenris turned and started toward a path that would take them away from Sundermount, toward craggy, sand covered hills where the coast could be seen as a broken, glittery expanse in the horizon.

To his left, Hawke noticed Varric take a gloomy look at the opposing end of the sky, where dark glouds were gathering above moss-covered slopes. The wind lapped at the dwarf's coat.

"Looks like it's going to rain. Perfect," he muttered as he strapped Bianca on his back and started after the others.

* * *

><p><em>Fenris stepped into Hadriana's study.<em>

_She was standing in front of the tall, open windows, looking at slave children who played in the courtyard of Danarius's manor. The parched ground was dotted yellow with ripe lemons, shed from old trees that shaded the yard from the afternoon sun. The hottest part of the day was over, and people were returning to their chores outside._

_Hadriana, however, obviously had nothing to do. And Fenris already knew this to be a dangerous condition._

_The magister's apprentice was wearing a long, plaited linen robe that left her arms bare. The garment was bound at the waist with a broad belt made of small gold coins. Her dark hair had been braided to the back of her head and decorated with pearls. She was the very picture of a Tevinter patrician woman... thin, tall, elegant. Only two days ago Fenris had seen her slit a girl's throat to fuel a glamour that would protect the house from being spied on by magic. It was strange to remember that now, with Hadriana standing there so cold and collected, like a shard of ice in the middle of Tevinter summer._

_The room was surprisingly lacking in opulence. It was neatly furnished with practical, well-made things; a few bookcases and chairs, a bureau, a small desk with writing appliances and open tomes. The only thing that potentially hinted at its owner's vanity was a tall mirror in front of the windows._

_Hadriana remained silent. Fenris moved his weight from one bare foot to the other, and waited._

_At least it was fairly cool in this room. Beyond the low buildings at the other end of the courtyard, Fenris could see the distant blue shapes of the High Reaches with their white crowns. A pleasant breeze was blowing from the windows, gently billowing the white cloth around Hadriana's feet. It also carried her scent to his nose; rosewater and apricot, and the expensive beeswax pomade she used for her hair._

_Suddenly Fenris realised that Hadriana was watching him through the mirror._

_Without warning, she turned and raised her hand, heavy with gold rings and bracelets. A shock of pain struck the elf from his feet. The force of the spell impelled him a few feet back, where he spun and fell face first against a chair, toppling it as he went down._

"_Do not stare at me, worm. In my presence, you keep your eyes to the ground. Now, stand up."_

_The impact of his face against the chair's armrest should have knocked him unconscious, or at least smashed in his teeth, but it hadn't. The pain was intense, but no bones were broken, and he was still in full command of his body. Fenris pushed himself to his feet, careful this time to look at the floor instead of her._

"_Thank me for the lesson, Fenris."_

"_Thank you, mistress."_

_She sighed. "There is so much you have forgotten! It is ghastly to think of everything that has to be taught to you again. This is a task Danarius has trusted in me. Do you not think I have more important ways to spend my time than schooling you in things even those children outside know? Well, do you?"_

"_No, mistress."_

"_Before the month is past, you must be fit to accompany Danarius outside again. You should be thankful that it is me who instructs you. I know you, and I know how to make you learn. Are you not pleased that you will become a proper slave again?"_

"_Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress." As the more generic pain in his face subsided, Fenris felt warm blood trickle down his chin. His lip was starting to throb and sting._

"_You're hurt. Must you be so clumsy?"_

_Fenris heard Hadriana leave her spot at the window. His heart started to pound in his chest as he stared at the polished floor boards beneath his feet. Then it almost stopped when he saw her narrow, sandaled feet appear near his own._

"_Look up, slave."_

_He obeyed and attached his gaze over her braided coiffure to the top of the open window beyond. A strange urge to run to it and jump crossed his mind. They were on the upper floor, but maybe he would survive the fall without broken bones? He did not yet know the limits of his body, or what powers the lyrium bestowed upon him._

_But once he was out, what would he do?_

_She took his chin in her hand. His breath caught in his throat._

"_Clumsy slave," she said, her voice low. "Clumsy, clumsy Fenris."_

_Slowly she rubbed her thumb over his full, swollen bottom lip, smearing blood across his mouth._

_Fenris's eyes unfocused. His mouth parted with a strained release of breath. Through the raw sensations flowing into him from her touch, he felt the tingle of magic, and the stinging in his lip ceased._

"_Now look how you have become," she chided. "Dirty little wolf, it will be impossible to train you like this. I will have to -"_

"_No."_

_The word was barely even a whisper, yet Hadriana froze._

"_Excuse me?"_

"_No," he gasped, hanging on to his fraying self control. "Hadriana..."_

_She stepped back. A sharp blow across his face threw his head to the side._

"_Let this be your second lesson," she said. "You do not presume to deny me anything. And you do not, I repeat, you do not call me anything but mistress. Understood?"_

_Fenris remained where he was, eyes half closed._

_He could still feel the sting of her backhand stroke on his cheek. It seemed that the nature of her touch did not matter, as long as it was skin on skin. He was stiff and aching and yearned for her to touch him again. In any way possible. Maybe it would be better if she just beat him._

_Not pleased with his silence, she moved her hand again. A brief crackle of electricity ran through Fenris and dropped him to his knees._

"_Do. You. Understand?" she repeated._

_He knew he had to give her an answer. "Yes... mistress."_

"_Good. Now look at me."_

_He obeyed. What else was there to do? He was strong enough to break every bone in her body, but a sword could not decide to strike its wielder. What happened to him, what would ever happen, it was just another day in the life of a great magister's house; something bought and payed for, same as the servants and house slaves who moved about the place in their daily tasks, or the location which, even in high summer, ensured a cool mountain breeze; or the children laughing outside as they played, painting a veneer of innocense over what happened behind the manor's closed doors._

_It was a world to its own, a place where anything was possible. And whatever that meant for Fenris... no one would care._

_Hadriana took his face in her hands. He shuddered in bliss. How could anything so vile feel so divine? It was far worse than just getting raped._

_She caressed his face and throat, not ungently, and he groaned and leaned into her touch like a dog. Her fingers slipped into his half-open mouth and stroked his tongue. Her hands were soft and narrow, the hands of a woman who had never had to do manual labor. She tasted of salt, and of the rosewater and fruit he could smell on her skin... and of his own blood._

_It was getting painful to have nothing done about his state of arousal._

_She caught a tear from the corner of his eye, raised her hand. A shining crystal formed and fell from the tip of her finger._

"_Show me how you touch yourself, Fenris," she said._

* * *

><p>"Hadriana!"<p>

Without halting his step, Fenris phased out his hand and punched his fist through the face of an Imperial soldier who was gasping for breath against the doorway, three bolts of Varric's crossbow in his stomach. The elf yanked his gauntleted hand back, and the man fell like a broken marionette, a deep hole in the stone where his head had been.

Sparing no look at the corpse, Fenris walked into the large space beyond the doorway, bathed in ominous stormy light. One wall of the underground room opened into a cliff that fell vertically toward the Waking Sea; a row of thick iron bars separated the space from a thirty-yard drop into the crashing waves. A low-hanging sun cast its light inside from the last clear edge of sky in the horizon, and heavy shadows sliced through the room from the iron bars.

"Not here," Hawke noted upon following the elf to the room. Or cave. Or whatever it was. The rusty iron chains, rings and bars that littered the ground told a grim story about the place. The remains of huge winches indicated that it had once been used to load slaves into boats. The cliffy shores of the region did not yield many good harbors, so the ancient slavers had had to arrange different methods to get the slaves transported to and fro.

The place should have been empty. It was hundreds of years since a slave had last been chained in this room. But today there were fresh bodies littering the floor. And they were not those of soldiers or bodyguards.

"This one is still alive!" Merrill cried from the side of the room that opened to the sea. Hawke hurried to her side and saw a thin, blond elf woman who, for all he knew, looked positively lifeless, not least for the ugly stain of blood that covered the front of her plain Tevinter style dress from neck to waist. But as he kneeled, he realised that Merrill had been right; the woman – or rather, girl – was still breathing. Whoever was behind the shallow gash in her throat had either been in a hurry, or actually intended for her not to die immediately.

Hawke was no Anders, but he knew basic healing spells. He put his hand on the girl's throat and fell into the required trance with practiced ease. It did not take long before the elf shuddered and regained her consciousness.

"Papa?" she whispered, her voice hoarse as she sought their faces in vain for signs of familiarity. Her eyes were the color of fresh leaves, and smudged all over with bright green paint that Hawke knew to be a common custom in Tevinter. To him, it made her look like something cheap and bought. "Is that you?"

"I'm not your papa," Hawke said. "What is your name?"

"Orana." She closed her eyes. Her words barely carried over the crashing of the waves far below. "I remember now. They cut papa, bled him... The magister... She said she needed power... that someone was coming to kill her."

Hawke inclined his head to look at Fenris. The elf was standing near them, staring at the slave woman with an inscrutable expression. Whether he realised the portent of her words, Hawke could not say. Surely he was aware of how much his master had already sacrificed to find him, not only in gold, but in lives.

"We tried to be good! We did everything we were told! She loved papa's soup. I don't understand..."

As if unable to look at her, Fenris turned to face the sea.

"Is the magister still here?" Hawke asked, trying for patience and calm – something he did not always excel at.

"I... think so. The magister said they were to prepare for battle. I think she's very frightened!"

"She has every reason to be," Fenris said.

With help from Hawke, Orana was able to stand up. She looked from the mage to Fenris, slowly taking in the meaning of their words. "Please, don't hurt her! She'll be so angry if you hurt her! Everything was fine until today..."

Fenris shook his head. He was still looking out, although Hawke suspected what he saw was not the setting sun. "No, it wasn't. You just didn't know any better."

Suddenly the girl looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"You... It's you! I remember... You were with them when me and papa were brough to the house! You were always at the great magister's side! Are you... free?" The idea seemed to make little sense to her. "Are you my master now? I can cook, I can clean..."

"No!" Horrified, Fenris turned toward them and gestured in denial. "Hawke, we have to get going. Hadriana's powers are growing as we speak."

"We can't just leave her," Merrill exclaimed. "We have to do something!"

Hawke sighed. "If you go to Kirkwall, I can help you," he said to Orana.

"You can? Oh, praise the Maker! Thank you!" The girl fell to her knees and started weeping and kissing his hands. "I will be a good slave, master. A very good slave! You will see!"

"Well that's just great," Varric muttered from where had been kicking at the rings and bars attached to the stone floor, apparently wondering what sort of blacksmithing tricks were required to make them last so long. "We'll be walking back to Kirkwall in a storm all right, but at least we'll have someone to wash our dirty underwear while we wade through the mud."

The look on Fenris's face was... indescribable. "You're in the market for a slave now, Hawke?"

Hawke opened his mouth to object, then reconsidered. He was in no mood to explain himself to the elf who, no matter what he did, seemed determined to believe the worst of him. "I don't see why that's any of your business," he said, embarrassed by the girl's abject gratitude.

The elf scowled. "Evidently not. Why am I even surprised?"

"The girl is not you, Fenris."

"I know that!"

"Do you? Do you really think that every slave can live free and survive like you? Look at her!"

"Fine." Fenris gave them both a last disgusted look, then turned to go. "Keep your slave, then. I hope your new status pleases you. It will undoubtedly please the city authorities. Can we go now?"

"How about I become her employer, then," Hawke called after him. "Like I perhaps intended from the start, before you started jumping into conclusions?" He patted the elf girl awkwardly, trying to break her out of her obeisance and regain ownership of his hands which were by now completely drenched in her tears.

"Bah." The elf was already halfway toward the corridor that would take them deeper into Kirkwall's dark past, and his own. "Do what you will, mage. I just want to find Hadriana and be done with this place."


	6. Chapter 6

Like a man possessed, Fenris was running, now. Legs heavy with the day's travel, Hawke and the others tried to keep up, through corridors eerily lit by torches whose dim spheres of light were separated by several meters of pitch black darkness.

Rounding a corner, Hawke saw the corridor take a short upward turn toward a heavy iron-bound door. Fenris was already at the door; it was locked however. Hawke was about to call for Varric, when the elf simply phased his hand through the heavy lock. With a sound of twisting and splintering metal it shattered, and Fenris yanked the door open and dashed into the room beyond.

The elf's lyrium gift manifested with its familiar broken sound. Hawke saw him pull his blade from his back in a great arc and fade into his ghostly, flickering battle state, where directly looking at him made Hawke's eyes water and ache. Then an invisible wall of energy blew him from his feet, away from Hawke's sight.

"Fenris!" he yelled and rushed into the room. In the few seconds he had, he saw a large, red stone room with several people, low-burning braziers and open chests littered across the floor, and Fenris lying near the far wall in a heap, unconscious.

Then Hawke was hit by something like a thousand invisible, screeching monkeys, and the world turned black for a moment.

A female voice was speaking through the pounding in his brain. An imperious voice, devoid of any emotion. He turned his head, which had somehow come to rest against the stone floor, and saw Fenris being pulled up by his arms by two Imperial soldiers. The elf's head was hanging limply, his white hair waving as he was dragged up. He did not seem injured, but he was most definitely out of it for the moment.

A mage in elaborate robes was walking toward Fenris, carrying some sort of convoluted shackles. The female voice spoke again, in a language Hawke now recognized as Arcanum. With an effort, he lifted his head enough to see the speaker.

She was standing at the other end of the room, a tall, thin, pale woman in an elegant blue silk dress. Her hair, neck, arms and waist were weighed by heavy gold jewelry, and she held a long, intricately curved staff in her hand. It crackled and sparkled with red energy – apparently the same one that had just swept him and Fenris off their feet, after they had charged in like idiots. A handful of frightened elven slaves huddled in a group behind her. There were maybe eight soldiers in the room.

_Stupid. Stupid!_

The mage carrying the shackles had reached Fenris. He was holding an open, gleaming band of metal in his hands. Hawke could now see that it was carved all over with some sort of inscriptions.

Suddenly the woman in blue was thrown back a step by a heavy hit against her left shoulder. She looked in surprise at it, and raised her hand to where a crossbow bolt was sticking out, right under the spot where her clavicle would meet her shoulder.

More bolts, now. But a violet barrier of energy had already formed between the magister and the rest of the room, and Bianca's greeting twanged and bounced against it, harmlessly reflected. The woman gave a command in her native language, slightly muffled by her shield, and her soldiers brandished their weapons and turned toward the door, where Hawke heard Bianca being reloaded and the uncanny sound of Merrill's gift that she called 'wrath of the elvhen', a mesmerizing tangle of moss-green tentacles that grew from beneath her feet, protecting her and reaching for any foe unfortunate enough to be too close. The men who who had been handling Fenris let him fall back to the floor and drew their swords. The mage stepped back, lifted his hand to weave a spell.

The distraction was just long enough for Hawke to pronounce a tiny healing spell that would wake Fenris up. He saw the elf shudder. Then, his face still against the floor, Fenris reached for the sword that was still lying right next to him. His gauntleted fingers curled around its handle, and the blue-white miasma of his lyrium talent flickered into being and enveloped him.

Bianca sang, and three men fell around Hawke. Others were dragged down by the grey-green tentacles that sprouted from Merrill. Then, with a fluid motion, Fenris was on his feet, gave an inhuman roar and swung his greatsword in a wide arc around him. The mage and the soldiers who had held him staggered back, blood gushing from open wounds; the mage had had his left arm completely severed, and it dropped to the floor, fingers still clasping the restraining shackles. Spirit energy pulsed from the elf, and the rest of the soldiers were thrown several yards back and to the ground, where they lie coughing and moaning, struggling to get up, or just away from the elf.

Only the magister and her elven slaves now remained standing. Hawke had just enough time to notice that the slaves seemed pale and weak; soiled bandages had been wrapped around their wrists and necks.

Then a red haze engulfed the wounded soldiers and the slaves, and screaming and convulsing, they fell back to the stones and perished.

"Hadriana," Fenris growled, the gleaming greatsword poised across his crouched form, still swimming in his eerie shroud of half-phasing. Hawke stood up beside him, and Varric and Merrill stepped in from the doorway from where they had launched their attack.

The woman in blue pulled herself to her full height and watched them with eyes that now glowed an inhuman red from her demonic power. She was still surrounded by the sphere of energy that kept her from casting spells on them, but also made it impossible to touch her with either spells or weapons.

Despite what Orana had said, the magister did not seem particularly intimidated by their arrival. Her dark hair and long, blue silk gown danced and billowed inside the magical shield. Hawke would have described her as striking rather than beautiful, had the bright red veins of blood magic crawling through her pale skin not made her terrifying instead. As he watched, Hadriana wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the crossbow bolt sticking from her left shoulder. She mouthed an unfamiliar incantation and the bolt wormed its way out of her flesh and clattered to the floor, leaving a barely bloodied, tiny scar behind.

She spoke in Arcanum to Fenris, her imperious voice distorted by the magic between them. He just spat in response, and swung his sword as he waited. She would not be able to shield herself forever. A barrier like that went through its course and then fizzled.

"Not alone any more, are you, wolf," she said then in broken common. She was looking at Hawke, now, and the red glow of her eyes made his skin crawl.

Fenris laughed without mirth. "And you have become a magister, Hadriana? Your powers have grown. No matter. I will kill you, same as I've killed everyone Danarius has sent for me."

The magister ignored the elf and directed her words at Hawke. "You, their leader? This slave is the property of Danarius, a high magister of Tevinter and member of the Minrathous senate. Protect him and face the wrath of the Imperium. Return him to us and be rewarded. Choose!"

Hawke leaned on his staff, and stroked his beard. He looked from Hadriana to Fenris, who was staring at the woman like a very hungry wolf might stare at a very vicious rabbit, and back.

"Oh, I don't know. Can't I just choose to have a hot bath and a dinner instead?"

"Idiot," she spat and raised her bejewelled hand. With a muffled sound her barrier collapsed in on itself. A side door crashed open and a slew of armored men emerged.

"Grab something sharp and pointy, we got company," Varric shouted, before Hadriana's spell threw them back, all the way to the other side of the room. The blast was no longer strong enough to knock them unconscious, but it did sweep them off their feet. Hawke saw a red vortex of blood magic start near him, and struggled away from it before it could suck him in and leech the life out of his veins.

Then, to his horror, the corpses around them shuddered and started to rise. Hadriana was resurrecting them as living dead that were more useful to her than the intimidated living soldiers.

_Is there any limit to her powers?_ he thought as he swung his staff and launched a fiery attack on the soldiers who were charging at him. It seemed that they would have to fight their enemies three times; first as living people, then as undead minions; and finally as the raw power that Hadriana now unleashed on them, proving that she was, indeed, a noble of the realm of the greatest mages on Thedas.

o o o

Hawke had fought blood mages before, and thought he knew their tricks. Not least because of Merrill. Her gift manifested in a lot less fearsome manner than Hadriana's — swirling green leaf-like patterns that billowed around her willowy shape. But it was blood magic all the same — something that had almost resulted in her untimely demise in Fenris's hands when the Tevinter elf had found out what was the source of her power.

But the blood mages Hawke had fought had been scattered refugees who lived in small coteries and passed their fragmented knowledge among each other. Hadriana was a magister of Tevinter, where blood magic had been revered, studied and passed down from generation to generation for thousands of years.

In the end what saved them was that Hadriana had already expended a lot of her strength, and that Fenris knew her so well. He had fought magisters before to protect his master, and knew how to counter their tricks.

When her men were dead and the abominations and shades she conjured had been beaten, it was Hawke whose spell finally blasted her from her feet and threw her to the ground, depleted of her strength. The diabolic red light died and what lay in front of them on the stone floor was no longer a great magister of the Imperium, but a thin woman with a broken leg and a torn dress, her black hair and jewelry hanging in disarray as she tried to crawl toward her staff.

Fenris, still shrouded in the ghostly half-phasing of his battle defenses, kicked the weapon away from her and lifted his sword to finish her off.

She screamed unintelligible words at him in Arcanum. Fenris answered in the same language, spitting his words out like something that disgusted him.

She hissed and cursed, then looked from Fenris to Hawke, and abandoned her native tongue to address them in common. "You do not want me dead," she said, then, her accent even heavier than before. Even in defeat, she somehow managed to look arrogant.

"There is only one person I want dead more," Fenris growled.

_What did she do to him?_

The demonic light had disappeared from the magister's eyes. They were now a disturbing icy blue color that shone from the shadow of black kohl and blue paint like jewels. Hawke realised she was not much older than himself. "I have information, and will trade it for my life."

"The location of Danarius? What good will that do me? I'd rather he lose his pet pupil." Fenris tightened his grip on the sword.

"No!" she shrieked. "You have a sister! She is alive!"

Fenris froze, and then slowly lowered his weapon to his side. The lyrium glow faded from him.

The magister pushed herself to a sitting position and cried out in pain as she tried to move her broken leg. Her hand moved toward it, then trembled and fell to her lap. Hawke knew from experience what was going on in her mind; the urge to heal herself was strong, but there was no strength left in her to do it.

"How do we even know you're telling to truth?" he asked levelly, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. At least none of it was his own. He was tired and aching all over, but not injured — a condition that all of his companions seemed to share.

She looked at him like she might have looked at a cockroach in her food. "You don't. But I know Fenris. I know what he is searching. If he wants me to betray Danarius, he will have to pay for it."

Hawke turned to look at the Tevinter elf, who was staring at the woman as if she had grown an extra pair of eyes.

"That's a flimsy deal if I ever heard one. But it's your call," Hawke said, his voice weary. He did not like to compromise his authority, or the feeling that they were all just pawns in a game whose rules the elf refused to reveal, but right now, he just wanted it to be over with.

Fenris sheathed his sword and knelt above Hadriana. His markings still shimmered with residue power in the dim light of the braziers. She tried to pull away from him and cried out as her broken leg moved; their faces were barely inches from each other.

"Tell me what you know," Fenris said.

"Give me your word, that you let me go!"

A small pause. Then, "Fine. You have my word."

Hadriana stared at him, searching his face for signs of dishonesty. Realising she had no choice, she relented.

"Her name is Varania. She is in Qarinus, she serves a magister. His name is Ahriman."

"A servant." The idea seemed to puzzle Fenris. "Not a slave."

"She's not a slave. This is all I know. Now let me go!"

Ghostly blue light flickered over the elf. Hawke heard the eerie drone of his hand immaterializing.

"I believe you," he said, and drove his steel claws into her narrow chest. She opened her mouth as if to say something; then blood poured from her breast, splashing over her blue gown. Fenris pulled his fist back, and shaking and gurgling, the Tevinter magister fell to the floor.

The elf stood up and threw something fleshy and twitching from his gore-covered hand. It hit the floor stones with a pathetic wet sound. "We are done here," he said and walked past Hawke without an expression.

Merrill had covered her mouth with her hand. Even Varric looked a bit queasy. The magister convulsed and made gurgling noises from her throat as she died. Blood bubbled from her mouth and nose, and the gaping hole in her chest filled with it, until it spilled to the floor.

Hawke looked at the elf's receding back. The last of the blue glow was just fading from Fenris's markings. Knowing it was probably a bad idea, the mage cleared his throat and spoke.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Fenris stopped and turned to look at him, frowning.

With the splashes of gore and black demon muck that covered him, he was a terrifying sight. They all were. But unlike them, Fenris looked like he was born to carry such stains, to revel in them. In the battle, he had been a force of nature, magnificent and frightening to behold. What had it taken to create such an instrument? Hawke could now almost understand why Danarius threw so much resources into getting him back, aside from mere insulted pride.

"No, I do not want to talk about it."

"Not big on keeping your promises, I take it..?"

With that, Fenris's feelings finally surfaced. Instead of the elation or even satisfaction Hawke might have expected, he saw rage and deep bitterness, and incredulity at what Hawke had just suggested. The elf spat on the floor and thrust a steel-clad finger toward him. Drops of blood and worse spattered from it. "That's what our bloody deal was worth!"

Varric cleared his throat. "Hawke?" he muttered. "Maybe now is not the time to offer the elf constructive criticism."

Varric was right, of course; why did he always have to tell Fenris exactly what he shouldn't? But all he knew was he had to say _something_. He could not just let the elf leave... not like that. He rummaged through his brain, desperately trying to figure out the least offensive thing to say.

"Awful," Merrill gasped, still staring at the magister, whose corpse had now become mercifully still.

Hawke had thought Fenris would be glad to be rid of the his master's accomplice. But it seemed like it had only brought to surface all the acrid memories and hatred that had obviously boiled inside Fenris for weeks. He was pacing now, like he did when something disturbed him, not caring about the congealing blood and bits of humans, elves and abominations that littered the floor beneath his bare feet.

"We can't be sure she was telling the truth," Hawke said. "We should have let her live, at least until we find this… sister of yours."

The elf's eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the mage. "And how did you intend to control her until that, or keep her captive? She was a magister of the Imperium! You saw how hard it was to subdue her!"

"It could be a trap," Hawke said.

"Of course it can be a trap! Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this… 'sister.' And even if he didn't, trying to find her would still be suicide! Danarius has to know about her, and has to know that Hadriana knows." A shadow of barely contained rage fell over the elf's face. "But all that matters is I finally got to crush this bitch's heart." He turned away from Hawke, his voice thick with hate. "May she rot, and every other mage in Thedas with her."

_Don't say it, don't say it..._ "Don't forget who you are talking to."

As the logical result for his words, Fenris's full anger was now directed at him. "I haven't forgotten. How could I? You consider an abomination your friend, one hunted by every templar in Kirkwall, and another one of your companions is a blood mage already! For all I know, you're scheming with Anders to release every mage in Free Marches! No, there is no chance I could forget what you are, Fereldan. It is only a matter of time before you follow down that same path. In the end, there is always going to be some reason, some excuse..."

"Being a blood mage does not mean sacrificing innocents," Merrill said, her gentle voice trembling with a rare anger. "We are not all like your magisters. I am Dalish! I would never turn on those who don't deserve it!"

"Yes, you would." Fenris threw her a scathing look that bleached away what little color was left on her narrow face. "You just don't know it yet. Were it up to me, you would not even be here, witch."

She lifted her head. "Go ahead and try it, you fool," she said and raised her hand to the staff at her back.

Feeling tired to his bones, Hawke took a deep breath, and tried to stop the matters from spiraling out of control. "Shouldn't we at least look for your sister?"

Fenris laughed. It was a short, cold, ominous sound. "Even if I found her, who knows what the magisters have done to her! They use dreamwalking to control their servants and slaves. I could never trust her... She will never be free of their influence." His lip curled with disgust. "What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?"

The discussion was obviously not going anywhere. Hawke sighed. "Maybe we should leave," he said. "You're obviously not yourself right now. I am... sorry for —"

"No! I don't need you comforting me!" Fenris retreated. His face had turned into a mask of rage. "Keep your pity, mage. I am done with you and with all of your kind!"

The elf turned and left the room, almost as if escaping what was in it. Hawke made as if to follow him, then stopped.

It was useless. Fenris would never listen to reason in such a state of mind. Better to let him go, to try and talk to him later_..._ if there was a later.

A deadly cold settled in his stomach at the thought.

"Well, that's an interesting way to show gratitude, even for Broody," Varric muttered. He stretched his shoulders and grimaced. "Damn. I took a few nasty punches somewhere, there. 'Dear Varric, please learn to parry. Love, your innards.'"

Merrill shuddered. "I can't believe I just almost — Oh Hawke, he is so… angry! Do you think he will come back?"

"No," Hawke said, certainty weighing his heart like a stone. "I don't think so. At least, not tonight."

A deep exhaustion was settling into his bones. He knew there was no chance they would return to Kirkwall before morning. The prospect of spending the night in the holding caves not make him happy; it was as if every corner of the place sighed with the memory of the people that had once passed through it into their bleak fates.

They gathered supplies from Hadriana's half packed chests, and set up a camp in one of the store rooms, far away from the signs of battle. Hawke slept fitfully, and not just because the floor was hard and cold and the air damp and musty, even with the camp fire that thrived from Orana's dutiful administrations. They had collected the elf girl from where she'd been waiting near the cave's exit; Hawke told her to sleep and gather her strength, but every time he woke up during the night, he saw that the fire had been replenished.

He had bad dreams, much worse than any of his normal wimpy nightmares. They showed him every possible variation of what might have happened tonight; Varric's shot missing and Hadriana blasting them all down; Hawke's mana and life being depleted by a crimson vortex and the magister laughing as she ripped his throat open and feasted on the blood that sprayed on her. In another dream, the strange shackles were fastened on Fenris before Varric could shoot, and as he stood up, life and emotion had drained from his face. "Kill him," Hadriana ordered, and Fenris lumbered across the room to Hawke where he was leaning against a wall, gasping around arrows that had punctured his stomach and lungs. The elf phased out his hand and punched it through his chest, all the while looking at him with the soulless eyes of a walking dead.

Crying out, Hawke woke and sat up on his damp, disheveled bedroll.

Varric was sitting near the camp fire, boiling a small pot of water above the low-burning flames. Merrill and Orana were still asleep.

"Tea?" the dwarf asked. "I think you could use it. You've been trashing and moaning all night. This place sure brings out the best memories. For me, it was Bartrand and the Deep Roads. And crazy grandfather Rommel and his stinky socks. Don't wanna know what you dreamed about, Hawke."

The nightmares had left Hawke tired and cranky. After they had disbanded the camp and left the holding caves, he was not happy to find out that while the storm was over, it lad left behind an unending drizzle that turned the landscape into a foggy, damp expanse of grey cliffs and moss-covered hills, where the only signs of life were the shrill calls of gulls circling above.

As Varric had predicted, the trip back was wet and miserable. It wasn't made any easier by having to drag Orana along. But the girl did not complain; even as she stumbled in the mud, she kept walking, trudging along with silent determination. As Hawke offered his arm to support her, the girl eyed it like she might have eyed a vision from the Maker — a rather fearsome vision, at that. She only took it after he commanded her to.

As they finally approached the dark shape of the city that loomed above them like a jagged row of blunt teeth, Hawke could not help but wonder how different Orana was from Fenris. It seemed that the Tevinters acquired _elvhen_ slaves from all parts of Thedas; while Fenris was dark skinned and athletic, Orana had the pale coloring and slight build of Dalish origin. But their true differences were not those of appearance. Fenris had, also, been a slave. If what he had said was true, he had not been so different from Orana; unquestioning, unthinking, without a will of his own. It was almost impossible to reconcile that thought with the memory of the seething, bitter and extremely willful creature Hawke had seen last night.

Hawke remembered the frightened servants he had seen cowering behind Hadriana's back, how they had sought shelter from her presence even after she'd bled them to fuel her magic. Fenris would have never been like that, would he? Fenris was proud, fierce...

_He was a slave. And you will never know what that really meant for him._

_You don't even know if you'll see him, ever again._

But the thought was too difficult to linger on, now. Leading his soaked little band of elves and dwarves toward the city gates, Hawke tried to distract himself by pondering how to explain Orana to his mother, or what to say to the Viscount if he ever found out that Hawke was behind the disappearance of a Tevinter magister during her visit to the Free Marches.


	7. Chapter 7

__A child cries. A gust of wind sends soot and smoke flying across the parched courtyard. Steel-shod leather boots clatter against sand-colored cobblestones. One pair of bare feet makes no sound.__

__Aware of his master's presence behind him, Fenris swings his greatsword. It moves with familiar poise and speed, singing as it cuts through air.__

__A darker song, now, as the blade slices into human flesh and bone. Two men fall.__

__He follows through with a parry that meets a third man's saber at a downward angle. The tilt of his weapon unbalances its wielder, who stumbles heavily toward him. Fenris steps to the side, his practiced toes find easy purchase against the treacherous round stones. The blades hiss against each other as he pulls his sword to the right and slices the man's neck as he falls.__

__He spins to deflect the low sweep of a barbed mace, intended to brush his side open. He releases his left hand from the handle and grips the blade, which like in any such weapon is only sharpened at its point. With an uppercut move he raps the pommel of his sword into the other man's jaw, caving it into his face. Another turn and switch of hands and he parries a sword, letting its blade slide all the way against the cross-guard of his own. With the opponent's face within reaching distance, he twists his sword and traps the other weapon under his right arm. The man's face is only inches from his own, now. His lyrium markings flash and he punches his left fist into the man's helmet.__

__Blood sprays across the cobblestones as he sends the corpse flying with a kick. He falls into a defensive stance and lifts his sword across him. Sensing his master's presence still securely at his back, he waits for more. But more no longer come.__

__The battle is over in less than ten seconds.__

__A child weeps loudly nearby. Fenris blinks, shakes his head to fling away sticky gore. "Finish it," Danarius says.__

__Around them, the country estate is starting to burn. Black smoke billows against the blue sky. People scream, a riderless horse gallops across a garden. Fenris looks to his right and left. He sees his master's soldiers dealing with the last of the defenders. By now they are trying to surrender, only to be cut down where they stand.__

__The child falls silent, mid-cry.__

__A window breaks and flames emerge from the side of the low, white main building. A handful of Danarius's armored men exit through the front door, one of them dragging a woman by her hair. She screams and struggles, but cannot really resist.__

__A young man, no, a boy dashes out of the stables toward the soldiers. Of all the useless weapons in Thedas, he's holding a pitchfork. Danarius raises his hand and a flash of fire hits the boy and he staggers back, yelling in fear as he ignites. The woman shrieks in terror. Fenris sees the youth flail at his clothes and hair as they burn. Then a crossbow twangs and a bolt pierces the boy's throat, and he falls to the dusty cobblestones.__

__Danarius shakes his head as the woman is thrown at his feet.__

_"___Ariani."__

__She looks up at him, her tear-stained face twisted in hate. She is no longer a young woman, but still has some of her beauty, even with the grey streaks that adorn the tangled mass of her dark blonde hair. Her red gown is torn and she's missing one slipper. Fenris knows that she has most likely already been raped. Danarius is not one to deny his men their simple pleasures.__

_"___You! I curse the day my husband met you. I hope he burns you!"__

__Danarius looks at her as if in surprise, then laughs. "Then you do not know? Your family's status is revoked. You no longer enjoy the senate's protection. I think someone might have tipped them off about the... secret exchange you had with the Qun. Oh, but it was only today, wasn't it? You wouldn't have heard. Silly me. Your husband confessed in front of the senate, and his execution was handled quite swiftly."__

__Her grey eyes widen. "No!" she shrieks. "That's a lie! This is your doing, traitor! You bewitched him! You bought the senate!"__

_"___Such... accusations." Danarius sighs theatrically. "As it is, with his death, the Imperium is now short of a senator. I wonder who is elected? Perhaps the man who revealed his schemes, a most regretful former apprentice?"__

_"___Burn in hell, snake!" She spits. "By z'Razzmi I curse you and your line. May your seed die in your women's wombs. May your cock shrivel and fall off. You shall die by your own man's hand! You shall -"__

__Danarius steps on her throat, suffocating her curses against the stones. He rests his weight on his sandalled foot and the woman's eyes bulge. She claws uselessly at him, gasping in vain for breath.__

_"___Gentiles." Danarius shakes his head. "Fenris, finish her off."__

__The woman coughs painfully as Fenris grabs her by the hair and lifts her from the ground. "Fiend!" she rasps and claws at his steel-clad fist at the back of her head. Her eyes burn and spittle flies from her lips. "Filth! Abomination! You, also, shall be betrayed by him!"__

__Fenris blinks as he recognizes the ominous weight of prophecy in her words. But his master has commanded, and his lyrium markings are already feeding their power into him. He does what he has to, then drops her back to the ground, where she twists in her death throes, blood pouring from her breast.__

_"___She always was a spirited one, Ariani," Danarius says, and addresses his men. "Burn everything. Stake the corpses. No man or animal is to be left alive."__

__Fenris stares at the dying woman, who shudders for the last time, and grows still. Her grey eyes seem to look directly at him. Ash and pieces of soot fall across her now bloodless face.__

__When they return to Danarius' estate, they find his wife's corpse hanging from the rafters of her bedroom. Fenris learns that the woman whose heart he pulled out was her mother.__

* * *

><p>"Tell me, Hawke. What do you do when you stop running?"<p>

The campfire painted dark shadows and shimmering lights on Fenris' face. They were sitting on a sheltered grassy ledge, eating rabbit roasted on the meager flames. To the south stretched the endless dark forests of the Hinterlands; to the north, the lights of Lothering and its scattered farms could be seen beyond freshly plowed wheat fields. The hunter's moon was hanging near the horizon, and the land was rich with scents of earth, pine and ripe foliage.

This was not where it had all happened. This was not a place that still even existed. But it was a safe and familiar place, and Hawke welcomed what small moments of peace he could have.

He'd often come here with his gang as a boy, to roast rabbits they hunted, drink ale and just escape the endless farm chores and the constant supervision of their elders. When they'd gotten older, Carver had tagged along, embarrassing Hawke with his boasts and childish remarks. Now Hawke smiled at how mature he'd thought himself; at seventeen, he'd already had facial hair and bedded girls, could best almost anyone in a grappling match and was just smarter, faster and stronger than any other young man in the village. Such qualities had made him the leader of unruly Lothering youths - something his parents detested, and Carver envied. And all had happened without the help of his secret magical talent.

But he had never been outside of Ferelden, and was yet to kill a man, or save another from certain death. He'd been nothing but a clever young ruffian in a prematurely grown-up body.

"When you stop running... You start doing what you want, instead of what you have to," Hawke answered.

Fenris snorted. "No one is that free. There are always obligations."

"Yes. I had to dance in a cage with a bear and steal sweetmeats from little children for a year to pay off Uncle Gamlen's debt. Very undignified. But at least I had a place to go to, and friends to keep me company. The opportunity to act upon my wishes was limited, not nonexistent."

"Not all Tevinter slaves spend every waking hour in mindless drudgery. Some are valued family members."

"Were you?"

Fenris shifted and tore into the rabbit's leg in his hand.

"I don't know what I want," he mused after chewing for a while. "How did you do it? Have you ever thought of going back to Lothering?"

Hawke looked upon the lights that shimmered so invitingly beyond the moonlit fields. He thought of harvest festival, of the plump, giggling girls and full grain stores after a year of hard labor. Of never having to kill anyone. And then he thought of the hunger before harvest could start, of the long, dark winters, of being dirt poor, and of never seeing a face or hearing a story or language he did not know.

"My life is in Kirkwall now."

Hawke watched the elf's slender throat work as he swallowed. "And that's it? You leave it so easily behind?"

"Easily? My sister died."

It still pained him to think of her. Sweet, pretty Bethany, who had never thought badly of anyone. Over-eager admirers had abounded, to try and take advantage of her innocence and her parents' poverty, only to become quickly acquainted with Hawke's fists. And Bethany had just blithely continued to smile at everyone, and invite more unwanted attention to their little half-blood apostate family who already stuck out like a sore thumb among all the wholesome Fereldan households.

"I cannot imagine what it is like to lose your family," Fenris said.

"I suppose not. As much as I'd want to, her death has no meaning. It just happened."

"So now she no longer matters..?" Fenris brushed the back of his gauntlet against his brow. "Bah. Ignore me. Your story just... sounds too much like my own."

"Is there nothing you want, then, Fenris?"

The dream changed, and turned into something much more painful than just a memory. The elf's handsome face lost its frown. He turned to look at Hawke without disgust or fear, not only accepting him... inviting him. "There is something," he said, his voice so soft and deep it made Hawke's skin shiver.

Hawke reached out his hand, but it went through the vision. He woke up to the sound of winter rain pounding on the roof of his Hightown house. Fenris was gone, like he had been for nine days, and Lothering was just a black, blight-scourged lot of ruins far beyond the Waking Sea.

* * *

><p>The wet season had come and washed the soot of foundries from Kirkwall's streets and stairways and ancient bronze statues. Merchants complained of muddy roads and storms that kept ships moored outside the harbor, bandits of starving because no one braved the water-logged streets. Nobles just complained. Beyond the city's defenses, rain fell uselessly over the surrounding dry hills that had long ago been cleared of any vegetation larger than a shrub.<p>

In the Estates, Garrett Hawke blamed his insomnia on the everlasting rain, to not think of its real reason.

How many hours had crawled by this time while he turned in his bed? Too many. He was just considering whether to get up and finish some letters, when a different diversion came in the form of a soft rap from the door. Hawke lifted his head from the pillows.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me, messere. There is someone at the front door," came Bodahn's muffled voice.

The dwarf no longer allowed night-time guests in without coming to Hawke first. The decision had been made after a handful of a certain noblewoman's drunken male relatives had forced themselves in during the small hours, set the main hall on fire and panicked Sandal, who had enchanted one of them to bloody pulp before Hawke had arrived and shielded him to prevent him from doing more damage. The mage had then restrained the intruders and put out the fire with a frost spell. The combination of flames and ice and the ensuing torrent had ruined half of the room's decorations. A substantial amount of Hawke's Deep Roads savings had been spent not only to renovate, but to bribe the city authorities and the noblewoman's relatives to drop the case. Hawke's mother had not been pleased.

"Just a moment," Hawke called and got out of bed. Bodahn had to wait while he pulled on a pair of loose linen trousers, a dwarven made tobacco jacket and home shoes, and took his keys and night candle from the table. He didn't bother to look in the mirror – no one respectable would visit at this hour, and if they did, the matter was so urgent that his appearance was the least of their concerns.

"Apologies for disturbing your nocturnal rest, messere," Bodahn articulated as Hawke stepped out of his room. The dwarf's old face was deeply lined with worry in the dim light of his own night candle. "Whoever it is, he has been there for a while, now."

"Thank you, Bodahn," the mage said as he walked past the dwarf to the dark hallway. Indeed, now that he was here, he could hear an occasional pounding from the front door. His mother was standing at top of the stairs in her dressing gown and nightcap, a thick hand-knitted shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders.

"What is going on? A friend of yours again, Garrett? A most curious time to pay a visit. Tell them to go away."

"It's all right. Go back to bed, mother. You too, Bodahn. I will handle this," Hawke said as he started down the stairs.

"Yes, messere." The dwarf bowed behind his back and turned to go back to his and Sandal's small side room. Leandra shook her head, but also retreated to her chamber. Hawke's great mabari only gave him a lingering look as he walked by.

In the foyer, the pounding from the door continued. Hawke lit a lantern, and placed his candle on a bench. With no particular hurry, he tightened the belt of his jacket, before he walked to the door and opened the heavy steel latches and turned his master key in the lock.

A gust of rain and wind whipped Hawke's hair across his eyes as he pushed the door open. The inadequate light in the foyer fell on the thoroughly drenched figure outside.


	8. Chapter 8

The elf looked up at Hawke, as if surprised that the obstacle of wood and iron had disappeared from under his fist. He was wearing no cloak or hat. His hair was plastered against his head, so truly white it did not darken even when thoroughly wet.

When Hawke finally managed to break out of his stunned silence, Fenris also spoke.

"What on Thedas are you..."

"Shall I have to..."

Without finishing, both drifted back into awkward silence. Hawke stifled a curse.

"Come in," he said, and stepped aside. The elf eyed him as if questioning the extent of his welcome, but did as he had proposed.

Hawke closed the door and bolted it against the rain and the wind, and turned to look at his visitor.

Fenris was now streaming water in the middle of the entrance hall, back slightly hunched in his customary suspicious manner. He looked like something fished out of the channel - a very ill-humored, pointy-eared and wet wolf, perhaps. His lean figure was covered in the rarely changing spiky suit of armor and the greatsword was, as always, strapped to his back. A continuous line of water revealed his path through the floor, and a pool had already formed on the tiling at his bare feet. Under the tanned surface, his skin was awfully pale. The markings against it glared snow white in the dim light.

Without a word, Hawke went to a bureau in the corner and rummaged through it for a few old linen towels. Fenris seemed slightly surprised to be at the receiving end of even such meager hospitality, but took the towels nonetheless and rubbed them across his face, neck and hair.

Hawke did not tell that the worn rags were intended for wiping mud from boots or his mabari. At least they were fresh from the laundry, as far as he knew.

"What the hell are you..." Hawke heard the anger in his voice and stopped, then tried again. "Maker's breath, Fenris, where have you been?"

"I needed to be alone." Fenris looked at the towels suspiciously and sniffed at them, then shrugged and wiped his armor the best he could, trying not to get the linen hopelessly tangled in his spikes. "You look... exceptionally scruffy."

Hawke ran his hand over his full beard. It was in need of trimming, wasn't it? Bleeding knife-ears and their baby skin. Human women liked Hawke for being hairy, but he knew most elves found it off-putting. Or was the comment about the shadows beneath his eyes?

Not that calling Fenris baby-faced was entirely justified. It was almost impossible for a human to tell the exact age of an elf, but Fenris was most likely older than Hawke. A questioning Isabela had once been told that he'd been a slave for five years, and Hawke knew he'd been on the run for six or seven. That made Fenris at least thirty, assuming he'd undergone the ritual as a young man, to capitalize on Danarius's investment.

The mage had grown uncommonly self-conscious and was glad when Fenris chose to not continue that particular trail of observation.

"And why you should have missed me I cannot comprehend, considering how I left, back... there."

_You can't? Or you choose not to? _"Then the logical question is, why are you here now?"

Fenris gave up trying to get any less wet. The towels were soaked, and he was still nowhere near dry. "I came to apologize."

A mere double take at the words felt like an understatement. "Beg pardon?"

Fenris handed the wet lengths of cloth back to Hawke, still looking at him only in passing. "I took out my anger on you, undeservedly so. I said things I should not have. I was... not myself."

Fenris was... sorry? Hawke had sometimes wondered whether the lyrium ritual had permanently amputated the elf of such useless emotions as shame and regret, neither of which probably served the intent of creating a vicious killer. Of course there were things Fenris wished he hadn't done... but that was not the same thing as remorse.

"You and I, we... don't always see eye to eye," Fenris continued. "But that doesn't mean you deserved my anger. I owe you an apology."

"So... What? You don't think I'm going to invite demons over for some tea and biscuits any day now? Or slit my wrists and howl at the moon?"

The green eyes turned to him. Fenris's wet white hair was sticking any which way, and a drop of water fell from one lock that curled across his black brows. The corner of his mouth moved in a ghost of a smile. "I wouldn't go that far."

Hawke laughed breathlessly. "Oh, that's good to hear. I wouldn't want you to compromise your principles for my sake. Actually, why aren't more demons interested in me? All I get is the occasional ugly-ass sloth, and even they get bored with my dreams."

_You're babbling nonsense, Hawke. Stop it._

"Sloth demon..?" Fenris frowned. "Hm. You speak in jest. Well, I suppose you can afford it. You're strong, Hawke, I give you that. And for what it's worth... I do not believe you have reason to go down that path any time soon."

Hawke realized he was still holding the wet towels. More in order to gather his bumbling wits than out of any regard for the objects themselves, he went to place them on a bench by the wall.

It was a bit hard to see in the dim light, but when he turned back, Fenris seemed slightly lost, as if already wondering what he did at Hawke's place - a curious observance, considering that he had just spent about ten minutes pounding at the door to get in.

"I want to know what happened in there, Fenris. Why did you -"

The elf's face darkened instantly. His right hand tightened into a fist as if recalling the feel of the magister's heart in it. "All you need to know is that Thedas is a better place without Hadriana. Should you not be glad that we killed her? You've shown no qualms over dispatching maleficar before."

"Her fate is not what concerns me," Hawke said. "It is you I worry about. How are you faring?"

Fenris shrugged uncomfortably. "I should be happy now that Hadriana is dead. Instead I feel nothing but... disquiet." All of a sudden he shuddered, and Hawke realized he'd been trying to suppress it.

"You're still soaking wet! You'll catch your death if -"

"I don't get sick. I'm just cold."

Hawke opened his mouth, closed it. "Oh. That's... convenient."

Fenris brushed his hand across his brow. "Just one of the unasked-for benefits of my unwelcome state. I did not come here to explain myself and whine about what happened, Hawke. I just wanted to... not leave without telling that our quarrel was pointless and unjustified. Maker knows there are too many arguments between us, already."

Hawke's brain had stopped processing speech at a certain word. "Leave?"

"Now that Hadriana is dead, I see no reason to remain. I'm taking a ship at first light."

"No! You have to stop running, Fenris." Hawke tried desperately not to raise his voice. "Danarius will come for you again. What will you do against him, alone?"

Fenris seemed unconcerned. "Yes, I suppose he will come for me, eventually. But not very soon. Hadriana's fate will give him pause. And who knows - perhaps he will give up, now. Although I would not be entirely satisfied with that. I cannot stop thinking it could have been him there..."

"There are other things to life than revenge."

A flare of the elf's temper, now. "And what would you have me do instead? Hadriana came after me! I have never had the option to simply walk away. Am I supposed to forgive, no matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget all the things they've done to me? And... What in the name of Maker are you doing?"

"Not waking up the whole house." Hawke had cast a small spell that would prevent their voices from reaching outside the room. A look of distaste crossed the elf's face. _Yes. Magic again. When will you stop flinching every time I use it outside of battle?_

"Running away won't give you what you want, Fenris. What about Varania? How are you going to track her down, on the run?"

"I have not decided whether I shall to use that information. And why does everyone suddenly presume to know what I want, when I hardly know it myself?"

"So you're just going to ignore her existence? Fenris... that's absurd. She's your family, someone who can tell you who you are."

"Yes, that she can, if she even is my sister. How should I know? Most likely it is just a trap."

"So you're too afraid to contact her? How do I get the feeling you're not afraid of being deceived, but of finding out about yourself? Fenris... you may nor wear chains any more, but you're not free."

And, with the certainty of a natural law, the elf's rage surfaced again. "You know nothing of being a slave!"

"I suppose a year in servitude doesn't count?"

Fenris gave a small derisive laugh. "Servitude? Smuggling and burglary! Had Gamlen not pulled that one on you, you would have worked for Athenril or her ilk for money. It was an opportunity, not _servitude. _You know nothing of true slavery. Of losing everything you ever were. All they left me is this... hate. It's a sickness. A dark growth inside me that I can't ever get rid of, and they put it there!"

"Who? Danarius and Hadriana? Or just mages?" Hawke narrowed his eyes. "And here I thought I was the mage who actually helped you, when no one else would. You're making me wonder why I did it, in the first place."

"You did it because I paid you!"

"Keep the money. I don't need it. I was angry when I said that."

Fenris fell silent for a second. "Then... why did you help me?" Even the question sounded like an accusation.

_Because I'm stupid enough to have feelings for you, you prejudiced prick. _Hawke met the green eyes levelly, saw them blink as uncertainty sneaked its way through the elf's resentment.

"This... isn't why I came here," Fenris said and turned to go.

A cold nausea settled in Hawke's stomach. "So you're just going to leave?"

"I think it would be better for us both if I did."

Suddenly Hawke felt the full weight of his most painful memories descend on him. His father's death bed. His childhood friends littered among other corpses as they fled, unable to save anyone except themselves. Bethany's broken remains. His mother weeping quietly in the corner after Carver left to join the templars. Would there ever be an end to this... losing of people he loved? Years from now, would he look back to this moment, remembering how he kept his silence?

"No," he said.

"No? Why, exactly?"

Hawke moved. Fenris did not. No even when the mage was close enough to smell his scent — oiled leather and birch smoke and soap, and the distinct sparkly quasi-scent of lyrium that only a mage could sense.

Hawke did not remember ever standing so near to Fenris. He had about half a head and three stones on the elf, and felt like a lumbering ogre. The top of the man's tousled, white head came to his cheekbones. Why had he thought Fenris would be taller?

"Is it really Danarius you're running away from? Or me?"

"I need to go," Fenris said, in a choked voice the mage had never heard before, and started toward the door.

Hawke grabbed him by the arm.

He had maybe a second to sense that it was cool and hard with muscle, and that the lyrium sent a strange, tiny jolt of electricity through him.

Fenris moved with uncanny speed. His markings ignited as he drove the mage back against the wall, hard enough to strike the air from his lungs. Hawke had always been aware that Fenris was unnaturally strong, yet he had not really known, not until now. There would be bruises… if Fenris didn't rip his heart out first. The look on the elf's face was certainly one Hawke had only seen when he intended to kill. The sound of phasing broke through air like the buzz of lyrium addled bees.

With an instinct that had often saved his life, Hawke barriered himself. Fenris was pushed back a few steps, but did not fall — the same preternatural balance Hawke had seen many times in battle. The surprise was, however, enough to kill his ghostly glow.

"Blight it!" Hawke reached out and, in turn, shoved Fenris to the wall. The greatsword on the elf's back rattled against the plastering. "Have you gone completely mad?"

Rage had drained from the elf's face. He stared at the mage, green eyes wide with horror. Then — with an odd little delay — he froze.

The lyrium glowed fiercely where Hawke's hands were digging into Fenris's biceps. The markings were rough and tingled against his touch, just like all those years ago in the Deep Roads. They continued deep under the elf's skin, not so much like veins of blood, but those of ore.

Hawke knew he was hurting Fenris, but was too angry to care.

"What the blight were you thinking? Is it too much to —"

The words died in his throat.

For all Hawke knew, his touch on the elf's skin should have caused intolerable agony. But Fenris did not look like a man in pain.

Instead, he was… blushing.

Confused, Hawke opened and closed his fingers around the elf's arms. The lyrium in them sent a strange thrill through his hands. He'd never experienced anything quite like it. Quickly a dozen thoughts crossed his mind, ideas that had nothing to do with their fight, and everything to do with the sudden tightening in his loins.

Only a child or an idiot would have been unable to interpret how the elf's eyes suddenly darkened, or the audible draw of breath as his lips parted.

"Hawke." Fenris pressed against the wall. His eyes closed, and he swallowed with some difficulty. His chest rose and fell with strained breath. "Don't…"

Perhaps at the sound of that throaty plea some better man would have let go. But Hawke wasn't a better man, was he? His goodwill was merely a handful of learned reactions over instincts that had very little to do with true compassion.

He stepped closer. For a second he saw genuine fear in the elf's eyes.

When Hawke pulled Fenris against him, he realized two things. First, Fenris was still cold and wet from the rain. And second, in all his dreams, Hawke had gotten it totally wrong. The elf's scent, the touch of his lips when Hawke leaned to kiss him, his height… The reality was much less perfect, and infinitely more arousing.

_What in Andraste's name am I doing? This is madness. But so was the fuck-me look on his face._

Any second now, there would be the telltale sound of lyrium activating. But Hawke could not help himself. Savoring the moment before his inevitable messy death, he pressed into the kiss, overcome by unfamiliar sensations. The elf's breath tasted of wine and of the sparkly aroma of lyrium. His jaw was smooth under the rasp of Hawke's beard, yet he was not soft or yielding like a woman. Every inch of his body seemed to hum with a terrifying and alien energy.

Like a man drugged Hawke pulled Fenris closer, thrilled by how he was slender like a boy, despite his unnatural strength. Wet leather and metal glued Hawke's clothes to his skin. Their teeth clashed and Hawke pushed his tongue inside. The armored body against him was cold, but the elf's mouth was hot like Seheron, and Hawke's cock pushed against the now wet linen of his trousers.

And still Fenris did not resist.

Almost swaying, Hawke lifted one arm against the wall to steady himself. Fenris moaned into his mouth. With pain? Or something else?

Well, better to enjoy it while it lasted. It wasn't like there would be a repeat performance, since he would soon die horribly.

Hawke broke the kiss to trail a wet path down the markings that started from Fenris's bottom lip. To his surprise, Fenris tilted his head back, as if encouraging him to lick and bite the sinuous veins on his neck. They tasted of clean skin and lyrium, salty and sparkly, and flared under his touch. At their contact his mouth grew both sensitive and numb. Were they designed to exude the lyrium's effects? They certainly exuded… something, from how Hawke's heart raced and his thoughts grew sluggish.

Or perhaps it was only lust, strangely heightened by the expectation of an ignominious end.

Then he felt hands at the small of his back. They twisted the quilted dwarven cloth and pulled him closer, against chilled leather and metal and the heaving, strong body inside.

_Is he... willing?_

The thought made Hawke choke. Despite the barriers of wet cloth and armor between them, he was now so turned on he could have come just by thrusting against the elf's thigh. For a moment he considered it. There was still a chance that the bastard would come to his senses and decide to make a bloody human rag out of him.

_Shit… This is not how it should happen. I should be making love to him, not just rutting._

With what felt like an inhuman effort, Hawke pulled back to look at Fenris.

The elf had tilted his head against the wall. His green eyes were mere glittering slits in the dim light of the foyer. His face was flushed, his bruised mouth slightly open. Hawke could not altogether tell whether he was aroused, or maybe paralyzed with fear. But he was certainly not in pain.

"Fenris..?"

The elf swallowed and closed his eyes, but there was no answer.

Mesmerized by the effect of his touch on the markings, Hawke lifted his hand to Fenris's neck and slowly caressed it from the curve of his jaw to where his skin emerged from under the collar of his vest. Every time his fingertips brushed the hard ridge of a scar, it flickered into life with a soft blue-white glow. Fenris shivered and small choked sounds escaped his throat. His steel claws tore at the jacket at Hawke's back.

Hawke bowed his head and pressed his lips to the side of elf's mouth.

Fenris spun on him and buried his teeth in Hawke's lower lip. Hawke grunted and tried to withdraw. But the elf was too strong. A gauntleted hand darted from his waist and fisted at the nape of his neck.

Hawke gave in, wincing in pain. And slowly, panting, Fenris relented. Hawke's mouth tasted of blood and felt swollen and lacerated, but when Fenris licked the throbbing wound, the pain no longer mattered.

There was nothing gentle in the kiss that followed.

While it still continued, Hawke bent his knees and pushed a thigh between the elf's, to grind his hips into the wall with his own. The friction on his aching cock nearly undid him. Through the groin guard he could not really feel whether Fenris responded, but the welcoming groan his forceful treatment elicited was the single most arousing sound he'd ever heard.

"Maferath's balls," the mage blasphemed. He had just about enough sanity left to realize they would have to get into his room. Otherwise he would fuck Fenris against this Maker forsaken wall and get caught by… someone he desperately did not need to think about, right now.

The simple task of getting into his room proved almost impossible. Fenris seemed to have forgotten how to walk. Trying to hold any kind of a light source would probably have caused an accident involving fire, so Hawke used a spell to light the way, which Fenris, continuing to act unlike himself, did not seem to notice. They spent quite a while making out in the doorway, then against Sandal's enchantment apparatus — if you could really call it making out, rather than intercourse hampered by the fact that they were both still fully clothed. It was all Hawke could do to save the dwarf savant's invaluable equipment from being crashed to the floor. Somehow they ended up against the staircase wall. Hawke did his best to whisk Fenris up the stairs and past his mother's door as quickly as possible. It did not feel very quick at all.

A small part of Hawke's mind insisted that there was something very wrong with how Fenris acted, but the majority of his brain had melted and handed control over to his cock, which was firmly of the opinion that there was nothing wrong with Fenris having some sort of unexpected sexual meltdown.

How on Thedas they were able reach his room, Hawke would never understand. One arm around Fenris, who was now kissing him with one gauntlet tangled in his hair and the other under his jacket, Hawke pulled the door open and staggered through. Inside, he fumbled blindly at the latch. Fenris was sliding a hand down his back… and under the waistband of his low-riding trousers. Hawke should probably have been horrified at the thought of sharp steel claws on his ass, but instead, his prick jumped eagerly in response.

Finally the door was safely locked. With an impatient gesture, Hawke lighted all the candles in the room, and started removing Fenris's armor, a task complicated by how the elf was apparently trying to have sex with him through layers of cloth, leather and plate.

Somehow Hawke managed to drop the greatsword in its scabbard, then unbuckle the belt and cuirass. He had to yank and tug a bit at the arm guards and gauntlets, and the fastenings of the vest proved an almost insurmountable obstacle, but finally they all fell to the floor tiles with a terrifying cacophony of clattering and hissing pieces of spiky steel and enforced leather.

The first contact after throwing away his own torn jacket made him moan loudly. Fenris was truly laced with lyrium all over. The living magic in it sent shivers through Hawke's body, from his scalp to every finger and toe. If his hard-on had been uncomfortable before, now it was getting genuinely painful.

Leaning back into a kiss, Hawke ran his hands up Fenris's back, kneading the knots of taut muscle and lyrium with his fingers. The elf's legs nearly buckled from under him.

Hawke stumbled to his desk and pushed Fenris to sit on it, patently ruining his last day's correspondence. Surprisingly, since he couldn't see anything from the kissing that had now turned very urgent, he found the buckles at the elf's waist. It turned out that they were for some sort of codpiece that was attached to a pair of leggings. Beneath the groin guard Fenris wore only tightly wound smallclothes — even these were soaked with rain. With some blind tugging, Hawke found the end of the wet length of linen and loosened it. Thrilled by how Fenris arched against his arm and almost wept with relief, he slid his warm, calloused hand inside.

To his amazement, he realized that the lyrium markings continued all the way down the elf's body, and that one of them followed the thick vein at the underside of his circumcised cock. What twisted imagination had decided to put lyrium _there_? Danarius must have been even more of a pervert than Hawke had suspected. Yet he could not deny it was mind-numbingly exciting to wrap his fingers around the elf's hard prick and see the lyrium burn and feel it throb in a rhythm to the man's heartbeat.

Fenris twitched and leaked at his touch, and wrapped his long, slender legs around him. Hawke pushed down his own clingy trousers and pressed his larger hard-on against the elf's.

The electric pulse through his swollen flesh nearly unraveled him. Only by clamping his teeth on his bitten lip did he manage to stave off the immediate orgasm. After mastering himself he started to stroke them together, slicking their pre-cum over sensitive skin.

Fenris threw his head back. Tangled white hair fell over his closed eyes. Nails digging into Hawke's shoulders, the bliss on his face bordering on desperation, the elf seemed to coil tight within himself. Then he grimaced and jerked violently and, with harsh cries, started coming over them both.

"Maker's breath," Hawke stammered, and stared at the pearly white ropes that landed on the elf's dusky, tattooed skin, some reaching higher than his shoulder.

Impossibly, Fenris shuddered again and again. His cries turned to sobs, then to whimpers. The cum started trickling down the constricted muscles of his chest and stomach and the lyrium on them.

The last coherent thought deserted Hawke's brain at the sight of spunk running down the elf's markings. Knowing he would either do it or die, he stroked himself to climax. Soon he trembled and grunted against Fenris in his own much more mortal release. His seed joined the mess the elf had made between them.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Finally bothered to install a spellchecker on my new comp... And oh, a bit of timeline weirdness here, this is the next day after The Night. I know you guys will hate me but I just didn't feel like putting two chapters of smut flush next to each other. Don't worry, the rest of the previous night will come... __This interlude wasn't meant to be so long, but Isabela stole my keyboard. Damn you, Isabela._

_Thank you for the reviews and alerts._

* * *

><p>"You must be Brekker."<p>

"And you must be that lice-covered refugee."

Isabela saw Hawke raise his gloved hand. Pale flames emerged from it like a deadly flower. The fiery petals twined into a swirling sphere that illuminated the mage's blood-stained face. _Show-off._ But apparently it worked - above them on the landing, Brekker stepped back and drew his dagger and sword, swearing under his breath. He seemed to be the rare person in Kirkwall who hadn't received the secret memo about Hawke being an apostate.

"Hope you enjoyed saying that. Those are the last words you'll ever speak."

Hawke threw the fiery ball through the room. It exploded in a roar of light and heat at the Coterie boss's feet.

_And here we go again._

Isabela whipped out her daggers and, with a couple of quick jumps on the shoddy furniture, vaulted over a short-sword waving cutthroat in Coterie leather armor. A quick spin in the air, and she landed on her feet behind him and buried her blades in his back.

More of Brekker's thugs were pouring in from a side room, weapons in hand. Isabela kicked the dying man into them and danced back, giving room for Aveline who in her heavy plate was just a couple of seconds slower than her to reach the enemy. The guard captain yelled as she lashed out with her shield and crashed her mace into the nearest foe's leather helmeted head.

To their left, Hawke, Varric and Hawke's mabari were engaging Brekker and the five henchmen they'd accosted in the undercity hideout. Hawke was in the worst mood Isabela had ever seen, and not particularly frugal with his spells. Seemed like he didn't have to be. Where did the man draw his strength these days? The fray was already turning into an ugly screaming mess of burning men who tried to escape the unnatural fire, only to end up pierced by Bianca's bolts or getting an arm torn out by the massive war hound.

Isabela's gut knotted at the sight of spreading flames and smoke. As a seafarer, she had a healthy respect for fire in closed spaces. The stone floor was covered in soiled straw, wooden crates and other flammable crap. The rainy season had permeated everything in Darktown with its stinky moisture, but that didn't mean the litter was immune to the preternatural heat.

Isabela muttered an oath before she had to return her attention to the fight at hand.

In the end, Hawke managed to save them from Andraste's fate with an ice spell, and Varric put the double-dealing Coterie boss out of business with a crossbow bolt to the chest. With the rest of the Coterie men taken care of, Hawke walked up to Brekker's whimpering, smoking remains, and finished him with a swing of his steel-tipped staff in the man's face.

Isabela coughed and wiped her watering eyes. The room was half burned and full of noxious fumes. She was wet, covered in blood spatters and mud, and every muscle in her body screamed with exhaustion. The others didn't seem to be in much better shape, with the exception of Hawke. Whatever kept the mage running, it didn't seem to be running out quite yet. He saw to their wounds, then searched Brekker's corpse and the nearby tables and containers for any evidence of possible collaborators.

Nothing could be found. Either Brekker had been working for himself, or he'd been a very careful about hiding his connections.

"Well," Hawke said and strapped his staff to his back. "Let's call this a day, shall we?"

Isabela was delirious with relief when they finally left the damned hideout behind them.

Hawke had been unusually quiet for the whole day. On their way back through Darktown, he continued to say nothing. The forbidding expression on his face was the same he'd worn when Isabela had first seen him that day. Hawke had appeared at the Hanged Man to announce it was time to clear out a 'little problem' with Bone Pit, an unlucky mine he owned with some Orlesian named Hubert. The result had been a tiresome romp through the wet countryside to an ambush site at Dietrich's Crossing, then deep into Darktown's nastiest alleys in search of the Coterie boss who was behind the late attacks against some of the mine's shipments.

Well, at least this time Hubert's 'little problem' had not involved grossly oversized reptilians.

Isabela had rarely seen Hawke mow through his opponents like today. She had always chided him about his odd, sarcastic notion of chivalry - few enemies gave themselves in, when offered the chance, because they knew Kirkwall's harsh justice - but now that he'd for some reason waved his usual code of honor, she found this was not an improvement. It felt as filthy as her clothes now, to see Hawke act without mercy.

The mage hadn't even cracked a joke during the whole day. Something was definitely wrong.

"You all right?" she asked Hawke as they passed into a flight of stairs that would take them to Lowtown.

He didn't look at her. "I'm perfectly fine."

"And I'm the Arishok's left butt cheek," she said. "I haven't seen you in such a foul mood since Fenris left all those years ago."

Was she seeing things in the dark, or did Hawke's frown grow even deeper? "There was a problem, I took care of it. End of story, Isabela."

The Rivaini knew better than to press the subject.

Upon reaching the Darktown gates, the evening had already grown late. The soft rain did nothing to improve Isabela's mood.

"Be at the Alienage tomorrow," Hawke said. "Noon bells. I have something lined up. It involves Keeper Marethari and that boy, Feynriel."

Aveline shook her helmeted head. "Noon? Impossible. I have duties, Hawke. I only agreed to come today since you told it might be a matter for the guard. Well, it wasn't, and I have a job to do. I can't play adventurers with you all day, saving apostates who can't keep themselves out of trouble."

"Fine. We'll take Anders, then. I seem to recall he's fond of helping apostates. Such as me."

Aveline's expression darkened at the suggestion of disloyalty. Isabela rubbed her forehead wearily. A confrontation had been brewing between the two Fereldans for a long time, and the Rivaini desperately needed to be elsewhere when it happened.

"Look, guys," she said. "I need a bath. And then I really, really need something stiff. Can I drop by your suite later, Varric?"

"Isabela." Varric sighed. "My door is always open for you, but you know my heart belongs to Bianca."

"I said something stiff, not something big and squishy, like your damned heart." She gave him a tired grin before heading off in a direction that would lead to her usual bath house in Lowtown.

There was a new back washer in the place. She had a nice smile, and when she asked if Isabela wanted a private room, the Rivaini found herself accepting.

The woman turned out to have nimble fingers and tongue, and Isabela made a mental note of her name and tipped her two silvers upon leaving. Like many other Kirkwall inhabitants, she had a laundry arrangement with her bath house, and when she left the place, she was wearing a freshly washed set of clothes. Even her boots and dagger sheaths had been scrubbed. All in all, despite her tired and bruised state, she felt fairly pleased with her life as she sauntered to the Hanged Man and bought herself a big tankard of ale from Corff.

Her pleasant state of mind was, however, completely destroyed when she walked into Varric's room. The dwarf was whistling to himself and playing One-Eyed Qunari at one end of the table. At the other, Hawke had passed out against the tabletop, an emptied bottle of grog and a pewter mug before him. He was still wearing his mud-caked, bloodied leathers, and smelled to high heavens. The huge mabari was napping near his feet, less intoxicated but clearly as exhausted as his master. His shaggy presence did not improve the olfactory qualities of the place.

"Sweet sands! Hawke?"

"Try talking to the mabari, Rivaini," Varric said and examined the complicated arrangement of cards before him. "If the human half of that duo understands a word you say, I'll be surprised."

The hound gave a soft 'ruff' in his sleep. Isabela gaped. "What? It's just an hour since we got back from the undercity!"

Varric picked a card, and placed it on the table. "He followed me here, sat down and started to drink. Seems like he intended to pass out, and as always, whatever our Hawke starts, he sees to an end."

Isabela groaned and slammed her tankard on the table. Seemed like her day was not yet over.

"Shit. I'll go get him a room. No way he's sleeping in my bunk in that shape."

"Thanks, Rivaini," Varric called behind her as she went to talk to Corff. "I owe you one."

"You owe me plenty, dwarf," she muttered.

A while later, she returned to help Hawke to his feet. Roused from his stupor, the mage took in her presence with an unwelcome drunken delight. "Isabela," he drawled and yanked her to his lap.

She pinched her nose. What the man's filthy gear was doing to her clean clothes, she did not want to know.

"Oy, love. I guess you didn't manage to work out your frustrations on those thugs, huh?" She pushed away the head that was trying to come to rest on her shoulder. Hawke's dark hair was matted with sweat, mud and ashes.

"Perhaps these two things are connected," Varric said from the side. He was now cleaning his nails with his dagger, apparently considering his next move in the complicated one-man game, or perhaps thinking of the sequel for his newest feat of penmanship, _Hard in Hightown_.

"Aren't we supposed to meet that Dalish Keeper tomorrow? Sweet sands, Hawke, you're drunk as a skunk and stink like one, too."

To Isabela's surprise, the mage actually managed to digest something she'd said, at least to the extent where it insulted his abilities. "I am perfectly fine," he said, carefully pronouncing each word with a drunkard's offended pride. "I am thinking of tacs... tacsh... tactics. For demons."

"Let me guess. You'll strike them unconscious with your bad breath?" Isabela stood up. "Come on, big boy, I got you a room. Whatever this is, you can sleep it off there. "

"You're no fun," Hawke protested but allowed Isabela to wrap his arm across her shoulders and hoist him up from the chair. The mabari yawned and lumbered to his feet as well.

"The heartbroken apostate accepted the curvaceous rogue's help, leaning against her ample bosom as they exited the dwarf's quarters in favor of his own," Varric intoned behind them, as Isabela started to lead the unbelievably inebriated - and quite heavy - Fereldan into the dimly lit corridor. She turned back to stick her tongue out at him.

They had just reached the room she'd rented, when someone almost walked into them from behind a corner. Isabela, who was forced into a rather awkward pose by the mage's weight, observed a pair of bare feet that boasted a set of abstract white tattoos, then craned her neck to see a familiar face and a mop of equally white hair.

"Fenris," Hawke said with surprising lucidity. Then he apparently decided his befuddled senses were playing tricks on him, and started to drift off against the staggering rogue.

Isabela gaped, and the Tevinter elf seemed almost equally surprised. As usual, he had entered the establishment through the back door, to avoid unwanted attention. It was more than ten days since Isabela had last seen him – and she certainly hadn't expected to see him now.

The mabari, who usually ignored strangers – whenever he wasn't tearing their limbs off – wagged his stumpy tail happily at the sight of Fenris.

"You! What are _you_ doing here?" Isabela shifted Hawke's now half-limp body against her, trying for a better grip on the arm across her shoulders.

"No ships are sailing in this weather. Storms will keep them in anchor for at least a week." Fenris ran his eyes over them both, then frowned at Hawke. "Is he... all right?"

"Just about to leave for a ball at Lady Rutherford's estate, actually." Isabela was starting to sweat under the weight. "Don't just stand there, help me!"

Alarmed, Fenris raised a hand and took another step back. "I -"

The Rivaini rolled her eyes. "At least open the door, you big pansy!"

She threw him the key. Careful not to get too close to either of them, Fenris undid the lock and held the door while Isabela dragged Hawke through and flopped him unceremoniously on the bed. The mabari followed and settled nearby with a satisfied grunt.

It was hopeless trying to tuck and keep the man's long arms and legs in the pitifully narrow bunk. With an oath, Isabela gave up and allowed him to just... sprawl.

"Blight, I feel like I just got humped by a Qunari." She made the mistake of checking the state of her outfit. "And these were my only clean clothes. Shit!"

"Good. I shall... leave, then," Fenris said and turned to go.

"Wait!"

Reluctantly, the elf obeyed. Isabela walked to the door and closed it, then looked at Fenris, a suspicious look in her golden brown eyes. "This is your fault, isn't it?"

Fenris stiffened. "I have no idea what -"

"Don't bullshit me, elf. I heard what happened in those slave caves. We all thought you were gone for good. But here you are, and Hawke... well, first he almost barbequed us in Darktown, and now this. He's been worse than a sailor on a shore leave for a _month._ What the hell is going on?"

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern."

Isabela laid a hand on her hip and pointed the other at Hawke. "You fail to see _that?_ Everything was fine until you appeared! Hawke has obligations, you selfish arsehole. I suggest you start explaining."

Fenris sneered. "To you? Why? Because he takes you into his bed every now and then?"

If the words were meant to faze her, they failed. "No. Because if you don't, I will cut off your glowing magic balls. So, what did you fight over this time? I don't supposed you fucked, so was it probably something about..."

Isabela frowned and fell silent. Her eyes narrowed. They turned toward Hawke, then back to Fenris, who suddenly had a profoundly uneasy expression on his face.

"_What?_ I can't believe this! You had sex with him! _Sex!_ How's that even possible? Aren't you supposed to be untouchable?"

Too fast for even Fenris to dodge, Isabela poked him in the bare arm. The effect was phenomenal – the elf's markings flashed briefly, as he jumped about a meter back and grabbed the handle of his greatsword.

Isabela crossed her arms and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Slowly, Fenris lowered his hand from the weapon. "It is... complicated," he growled.

"Yes, I see." Her voice was chilly. "Well, at least I now know why he hasn't visited my bunk since you came back."

"Hmm. I don't suppose you are... jealous?"

Isabela chuckled incredulously. "My sweet, I have many faults, but jealousy is not one of them. So, you don't want to give me the juicy details. Fine. Lamentable, all things considered, but for now - keep your bleeding privacy. You know he has feelings for you, don't you?"

Fenris seemed even more uncomfortable at this than at the suggestion of physical intimacy. "I... Yes."

"But you don't reciprocate. Damn, you two are more fucked up than a monkey's fist knot." She sighed. "Look, elf, I don't know if you have a serious mage complex, or a thing for pain, or if you are looking for a replacement for that Danarius of yours, or if you actually – Maker forbid – _like_ Hawke. I know he has this... thing about him that attracts people." She glanced at the the stinky, muddy individual who snored on the bed. "Well, most of the time. The deal is, he's my friend. Screw this up, and I'll make sure that's the last thing you ever screw. _Compreve?_"

Fenris grumbled something under his breath. Isabela imagined it sounded a lot like 'nasty bitch, he doesn't need you to defend his virtue' in Arcanum. "_Compro,_" he said then, reluctantly. _"Amea sui amaram esta laudam."_

"What?" Isabela frowned. "I can't really speak Arcanum, you know. I just picked up a few words from a sailor from Vyrantium."

"I said, the loyalty of his friends does him credit."

"Right." She decided the elf was not being sarcastic. At least no more than usual on his better days. "So, now that we're all chummy again. Why are you here, Fenris?"

"I am in need of work. There is nothing on offer at the Mercenary Guild. I assume it is because of the season."

Isabela leaned against the door. "You're broke? I thought Hawke saved your share of the Deep Roads. I would have imagined he'd given it to you already. He's a bit funny like that."

"The ownership of that share is… unclear."

"Huh." Isabela scratched the back of her ear. "Well, Hawke has something queued up for tomorrow, but I doubt you'll be interested."

She explained about Feynriel, and the furrows on the elf's brow grew deeper. "The half-elf mageling Hawke insisted on releasing to the Dalish? I assume that has backfired, then?"

"Seems so."

"Why am I not surprised? The boy must be killed."

Isabela shrugged. "You know Hawke. Always attempting the impossible, even when someone really doesn't deserve it. There's only me and Varric to accompany him, so we could use some backup... But like I said, I don't expect you to be interested."

"The Fade is no place for people like me. But I'll come." Fenris glanced at Hawke. "If he wants me."

"Oh, I think we both know he does. From all possible angles."

To Isabela's amazement, the ill-tempered Tevinter blushed all the way to his pointy ears.

_That good? Now you _almost_ make me jealous._

For a moment, Fenris didn't know which way to stand. She actually found it hard to remain angry. The elf was so adorable when flustered, she didn't even have the heart to joke about the 'I'll come' part.

Finally Fenris managed to cough out a question about when and where, and Isabela told him.

"I shall be there." Isabela stepped aside as the elf headed for the door. His hand already on it, he halted and picked something from his belt pouch. "Tell him to chew on this when he wakes up."

Isabela caught the thing from mid-air. It was an unimpressive, small brown lump of something that looked like snuff, wrapped in a bit of gauze. "How is chewing tobacco going to make him feel better when he's puking his guts out?"

"It's not tobacco. It is _billitis_."

"The Tevinter cure for hangover?" Isabela's eyebrows shot up. "I've only heard rumors of this. And you know the recipe? You could make a fortune selling this stuff!"

"It doesn't cure hangover. Just makes it easier. And it is hard to manufacture in quantity. The ingredients are... difficult to come by."

"I'm not going to ask why you have it with you, then." Isabela dangled the thing in front of her eyes, then smiled slyly. "Do you by any chance have more of this to spare? You could become my new best friend. I might even let you grief Hawke a bit. It's not like that great oaf doesn't have it coming, from time to time. And it would be a shame to emasculate such a... manly and... deliciously handsome elf."

Fenris beat a hasty retreat.

"Selfish bastard." Isabela tucked the medicine in her pocket, then gave a last look at Hawke. The bunk was really far too small for the man. He was probably going to end up sleeping on the floor. Everything about him was big and far too complicated for Isabela's tastes. But at least life was never boring with him around.

"So, you and Fenris, hmm? Oh, I wish I could have been the fly on the ceiling for _that._" She sighed wistfully, and left.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Part 2 of The Night - yes, the night before Chapter 9, sorry for timeline perversions... From now on, folks, I'm afraid it's gonna be just sexy scenes and fighting. __There's something wrong with me, it's far too much fun to write about these two having at each other._

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><p>During his time in slavery, Fenris had learned to distance himself from what happened to him. He had become quite good at shrugging off humiliation and pain. It had been the only way to live through it and remain relatively sane.<p>

But it was twelve years since he had been transformed, seven since his escape. He had changed. He was no longer just an empty shell, indifferent to what happened to him. There was now something in him that could be touched... and hurt. Maybe he was still nothing more than a shard of a whole, but that shard was _him_, however incomplete and ugly.

Years of abstinence had not lessened his bizarre response to being touched by a mage. He was not even naturally drawn to men, but from Hawke's first sudden kiss, Fenris was lost. For a long time he had no sense of time and place, or much awareness of himself as something that existed apart from Hawke's touch.

He might almost have reconciled himself to plain sex. But the cursed man wanted more. After the first frantic encounter on the desk, Hawke had proceeded to make love to him. And this tenderness succeeded in what Hadriana had never managed, and touched Fenris in places that had never truly healed. And that was far more cruel than anything else Hawke could have done.

Hawke's bed was softer and bigger than any Fenris ever remembered sleeping in. It seemed the man had no intention of sleeping, however. With a gesture that was in sharp contrast with his earlier behavior, he held Fenris's hand and just examined for a while. He rubbed his blunt, hardened thumb across the thick white lines in the elf's palm, as if marveling at the bond of metal and living flesh. Still half out of it, Fenris watched as Hawke kissed the spot where his thumb had been, then his wrist. A shiver ran up his arm as the man's warm tongue flicked over the markings that curled lazily up the long, weaved muscle between his wrist and elbow. Hawke kissed the tender spot where a vein pulsed right under his skin, and continued up his arm, to the round shape of his shoulder. Wherever Hawke's mouth went, it was followed by the maddening tickle of his beard.

Somehow Hawke came to rest half on top of him, heavy and hot like the spellfire that Fenris knew to live inside him. The man even smelled like smoldering embers. Under his weight, Fenris felt like he was being swallowed up by something warm and soft and and immense, something he had no strength to escape, though he knew it was not safe.

Hawke was now kissing his ear and exploring it with his tongue. Between them, his hand traced the lyrium whorls and connections in Fenris's skin. The lower his fingers reached, the shallower Fenris's breath grew.

The first release had desensitized him somewhat, and with the raised awareness came an unwelcome feeling of embarrassment. Even worse, it was not the sharp arrow of humiliation that Hadriana had taught him. Even his shame had a soft edge of willingness to it.

Perhaps sensing his change, Hawke lifted his head to look at him. His hand was now on Fenris's thigh and Fenris swallowed and raised his arm across his eyes, mortified by the feeling of hot blood rushing to his face.

Hawke stroked him like he might have stroked a half-tamed horse, and murmured in his ear. And to his chagrin, Fenris felt himself relax. Perhaps because he was still more beast than man? Or so he later told himself, scorning what he was unable to either accept or deny.

Already, he could feel the momentary respite of his senses passing, and the lazy waves of pleasure taking on a sharper edge. As Hawke started to kiss his neck again, Fenris pushed his shoulders against the bolsters in nervous expectation, his hand still against his burning face.

And sure enough, somewhere between the base of his neck and his navel it struck. He shuddered and bit his knuckles, and moaned helplessly.

Oblivious to the fact that he could now have slapped Fenris in the face to what would have been the same effect, Hawke proceeded to caress his way down the elf's chest and waist. At his touch, the white markings now glowed like coals in a forge.

Fenris felt dizzy as Hawke licked a curl of lyrium next to where his erection was lying against his stomach. Nothing had felt quite real for a long time, and when Hawke took him in his hand and actually kissed his cock, Fenris was almost certain he was just dreaming. He lifted his head from the bolsters and watched in disbelief as the man licked him from the bottom to the top and then, out of all unlikely and completely unnecessary things, took him in his mouth.

Fenris choked on an involuntary grunt and grabbed a handful of Hawke's thick, dark hair. Perhaps taking this as encouragement, Hawke started to suck on him.

Fenris had no idea whether the man was experienced or not in what he did. It did not matter. No one had done this to him, to the extent of his knowledge. It felt... he had no words for how it felt. The lyrium branded on his cock throbbed fiercely against the soft, hot pressure. As if it wasn't already enough, Hawke took him even deeper. Well, the man had always been ambitious. He gagged a bit, but did not pause.

There was no way Fenris could take it for long. Helplessly he cried out and started to come. The world disappeared in mindless patterns of white and blue.

_Something whispered and moved right under the opaque surface of his hidden memory._

_A soft voice called out a name he could not quite hear. Warm sand shifted between his toes. Red hair and green cloth billowed in the wind -_

It did not feel so much regaining consciousness, when he came to, rather than drifting into a strange waking dream that sort of resembled reality. He still shuddered occasionally. Hawke was breathing heavy above him, half of his weight on his arm, half pressing him into the disheveled bed.

"Are you all right?" Hawke's voice was throaty and labored, but his concern seemed genuine.

Fenris was not quite sure about the answer.

For another moment the demand of his unnatural gift had quieted. It was strange, to have someone's skin against his own, and to feel neither pain nor ecstasy. He was able to sense minute detail that would normally have been drowned in the roar of his blood; the soft brush of Hawke's body hair, the contours of his muscle, even the strong and rather unsteady hammering of his heart.

A drop of sweat rolled down Hawke's nose and fell on Fenris's cheek. He was hot like a furnace and shook with lust, yet did nothing. Was he hesitating? Hawke was the least indecisive man Fenris knew. Even when all the options were bad, he just chose one and committed to it.

It was some sort of madness that made him wrap his arms around Hawke's neck an pull him into a kiss. What he tasted on the man's tongue must have been his own come, but he did not care. With a groan of frustration, Hawke grabbed his ass and ground his cock against his thigh. Of course it was big... like everything in the damned man.

Had Fenris been a she, Hawke would undoubtedly have taken him already. But still the man hesitated. As his cock slipped between Fenris's thighs, he just lay there, trembling and sweating, and cursed.

"Do it," Fenris said. Hawke raised his head, and from his bewildered expression Fenris realized he had spoken in Arcanum. He repeated himself in common.

The amber eyes widened, then closed. Hawke drew a sharp breath.

"Maker... I almost came just thinking about it," he laughed shakily against the elf's shoulder.

Instead of just fucking him, the damned man went to search for something to make it easier. Fenris muttered an oath under his breath and wiped his hand over his face.

Precious moments ticked by while Hawke searched, and every one of them made Fenris see clearer. What exactly was he doing here, lying in some other man's bed naked and covered in spunk? Why had he come? And even more importantly, why didn't he just leave? _Get up, Fenris. Get up, now. Go._ It was madness. It was –

Escaping might have been easier, had there been any strength in him left. And then Hawke returned, warm and big and alive against him, and kissed him again. With a painful stab at his self-respect, Fenris knew he was going nowhere... and that soon the whys and hows would no longer matter.

No longer hesitant or unsure, Hawke felt between his legs with a hand that was now coated in something thick and slippery. Fenris felt his heart skip a beat as Hawke found what he was looking for.

It hurt, but not intolerably so. His body seemed to know how to relax and take the man's fingers. He shuddered to think why, for it was not something Hadriana had taught him.

Hawke found a tender spot inside him, and he grunted against the man's neck.

"Hawke, damn you... Just... do it already..."

Hawke looked at him, eyes dilated with lust. Fenris felt the fingers pull away, and then Hawke turned him around and maneuvered him into a position that would have embarrassed him, had his mind not been going already.

Despite the attempts at preparation, the first thrust felt like Fenris was splitting in two. But pain was something he knew how to take.

Hawke pushed at the base of his neck with his hand. The markings there lighted up at the contact, and Fenris moaned into the crumpled sheets that had Hawke's blistering ember scent in them. He turned his face to the side, to look at the man from the corner of his eye. _It will excite him to see the pain_. Somehow he knew this, too. It did not feel embarrassing any more to lift his hand back to Hawke's hip to encourage him.

No longer so gentle, Hawke gave a few tentative thrusts, before proceeding to fuck him quite energetically. The man's hand found his hair and grabbed it, pushing his face into the mattress. Not quite cruel enough... But still, better than tenderness. This was something he knew. Not the way it happened, but how unapologetic it was.

After a while, it became impossible to think. With his left hand on Fenris's hip, Hawke slid his right hand round the elf's waist, to find that he was hard again and leaking all over the sheets. Hawke's fingers rubbed the marking at the bottom of his cock before they closed around it and started stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts.

Fenris felt his mind stumble over the edge, into a place he didn't recall ever reaching before.

_A girl -_

_An elven girl with hair the color of butter, and skin like ivory. She laughed in surprise as he pulled her into a shadowed nook under the staircase and put his hand on her breast. He had never touched a woman like that. She did not push him away. Instead, she kissed him, and called him by his name -_

_Red pearls of blood scattered through air. His bare feet danced on the ground as he made the sword spin in his hands, finally sure that he would win. He had shown them all. He would be the one left alive, the one to take the prize, to become something else than just -_

_Leto -_

His eyes opened, and he was no longer there.

* * *

><p>Hawke woke up to find that he was lying alone in his hopelessly messy bed. The room was silent and dim. It was still almost dark, but the faint blue glow between the curtains told him it was not too long until morning.<p>

He felt groggy and confused. _Was it all just a dream?_ The sticky feeling of sweat and other things on his skin told him otherwise. To top off the situation, he was sporting an uncomfortable morning wood.

He rubbed his eyes and brushed his fingers through his matted hair. A few fresh memories crossed his mind, and his morning wood turned into an honest-to-maker erection. _Perfect. I fucked him twice and it's not enough? Greedy bastard._

Then a sound of a buckle being tightened caught his attention.

Suddenly Hawke was wide awake. He pulled the nearest thing he could find across his lap – turned out to be a pillow – and pushed himself up to his elbows.

Fenris was standing in front of the fireplace, fully armored and apparently checking his sword belt. He did not look like someone who had just been fucked within an inch of his life. At least from the back, he seemed quite perfectly composed.

Hearing him move, the elf grew still, and let his gauntleted hands drop. He did not turn, however. Clearly he had gone through great pains to remove all evidence of the recent events from his appearance. Only his thick white mop of hair showed signs of resistance. After being allowed to dry freely, it was sticking out in all possible directions.

Hawke's fingers twitched at a vivid memory of what that hair felt like. It was both soft and coarse, like the fur of the beast after which Fenris had been named. Beneath the pillow, his hard-on was becoming rather insistent.

"Was it that bad?" he blurted out.

Fenris tilted his head gracefully, not quite looking at him over his shoulder. "Hawke, that is..."

Whatever the elf had been about to say, he was unable to finish it.

"It can be a lot to take in, I know," Hawke continued, not knowing whether he was trying to lighten up the mood, or just acting desperate.

He could not quite see the elf's resentment, but knew it was there. "Hawke, do me the courtesy and quit making fun of this."

"You're upset."

"_Venhedis..._" The elf's voice was even more hoarse than normally. "Why would I not be upset? I come here to tell you I _might_ not despise you, or think you shall become an abomination, and I end up... well..." He made a frustrated gesture. "You know what happened!"

"Since you mention it... I don't," Hawke said, truthfully, and looked around him. The candles had burned low. It wasn't long until Bodahn and Orana would wake up, then his mother. "Actually... I'm blighted confused right now. What the hell is going on? I thought you can't even be touched, and now I seem to recall we had it off like a pair of sex-deprived nugs?" He fumbled his fingers in his hair, mussing it up completely.

Fenris seemed to brace his shoulders against something. "What happened... is an unfortunate side effect of my branding. Something that occurs with mages. It had nothing to do with you."

"What?" Hawke sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. "Fenris, you must be joking."

The elf made no attempt to take back what he had said.

_Of course he's not joking. That's what _I_ do._

Hawke pushed himself to his feet and walked up to the elf. He raised his hand, but Fenris was already retreating.

"No! Don't touch me."

Appalled, Hawke let his hand drop, and watched the back of Fenris's head. Was he wrong, or were the tips of the elf's ears turning pink? And were there dark marks on the side of his long neck..? "So... Did I hear you correctly? It's just something that happens with my kind? And it would have been the same with anyone? Say... Anders?"

"Thank you for conjuring up that delightful image," Fenris growled, now without doubt deeply uncomfortable. "Yes, Anders. Merrill. Anyone. The stronger the mage, the worse it gets. If Orsino touched me, I would probably spew like a fountain."

It was not long since Hawke had almost confessed to the elf. Had the bloody man not practically passed out after sex, he would have. Now he felt physically ill.

Well, at least his hard-on was starting to go away. Fortunately, since he had completely forgotten about the whole thing while getting out of bed.

"So... what? You didn't even want it? Is that what you're saying? You didn't exactly fight back, there. If memory serves, you were asking for it. Loudly."

Fenris walked farther away and fiddled at his buckles and fastenings. "You need me to stroke your ego, Hawke? Fine. Yes, I enjoyed it. It was better than anything I could have dreamed. But if you imagine there was more to it, you're mistaken. You think I like it, being only able to... well, do _that_... with what I can't stand?"

Hawke hung on to anger - the only feeling that would prevent him from feeling like a complete fool. "So now you can't stand me?"

"For Andraste's pity. You know what I mean."

"I'm not so sure I do. Actually, I can't remember when I've been less certain about anything."

"Then you are clearly not as intelligent as I assumed," Fenris muttered, with his back stubbornly turned on Hawke.

The mage ground his teeth. "I'm growing tired of talking to the back of your head. Won't you at least do me the honor of looking at me when you say it meant nothing?"

Reluctantly, the elf turned toward him. Unfortunately, due to his bowed head, the first thing he saw was Hawke's still half erect cock. His eyes flew up the mage's face. There was not quite enough light to see clearly, and his tan complexion masked a lot, but Hawke was pretty sure the elf blushed crimson.

He was by now too angry to even care.

Fenris seemed to consider for a moment, then evidently reached some sort of conclusion. When he spoke again, there was actual distress in his words. "Look, Hawke. Something happened to me. I've never remembered anything from before the ritual. But now... there were faces, words... And then they slipped away. To get it all back, only to lose it again..."

Hawke's eyebrows lifted. "You remembered? I suppose I can take that as a compliment on my skills."

"Hawke..."

The gruff voice carried a familiar warning. Which he naturally ignored. "Don't you want to get your memories back? Sounds like we need to do it more often."

"We most definitely do not!" The elf's hands tightened into fists. "Evidently, you have no understanding or respect of how upsetting this is."

"No, actually, I'm starting to get it. And you know what? I think you don't _want_ to remember." Hawke laughed mirhtlessly. "Dear Maker, if you did, you might have to stop brooding! What an awful thought!"

Fenris straightened his back, clearly offended. "Oh, everything's so easy for you, isn't it, Hawke? I should just endeavor to do as you say, to act like all the other buffoons that surround you, and all would be well? Do you realize how arrogant that is? You haven't got the faintest idea what I've been through! Yet you think you know how to solve my problems? _Venhedis..._ you've never even been to the Imperium!"

"True, true, I haven't. So go ahead and play the 'sorry, magisters fucked me up and you don't even know how' card. Maybe you're right and I'm just shooting off my mouth." Hawke's eyes narrowed. "But do not make me pay for what those pieces of shit did to you back in Tevinter!"

For a long moment, Fenris just stared at him, and his eyes on Hawke seethed. When he spoke, his words were full of contempt. It was strange to think how differently that deep voice had spoken to him, just hours ago.

"Hawke... Are you serious? You think _you're_ the one paying here? Do not think I'm not aware that you have been after this from day one. Well, congratulations. You got what you wanted. Isn't that how things tend to turn out, in the end? And blight take anyone who dares to think otherwise."

Hawke opened his mouth for a poisonous retort, then realized what was happening.

Whatever fragile connection had existed between them for a moment, hours ago... It was gone.

He fought back his anger. When had talking ever improved things between them?

"Maybe – maybe this is not the best time to talk about this," he said finally, his voice dull.

"There's nothing to talk about, Hawke. This should never have happened."

The elf turned on his heels and paced to the door. He pushed it open, and without looking back, he was gone.

For a second, Hawke considered going after him. But it was almost morning. He was too tired to face Leandra if she found out just who had stayed for the night.

And would it not, in the end, be useless? Fenris was not the type one could just talk into changing his mind. That, at least, was something they had in common.

With a heavy step, Hawke walked across the room, putting out guttering candles and picking up his discarded clothes on the way. Before donning them, he did not fail to notice the ugly tears that now marred the back of his home jacket. He pulled the curtains to let in the grey pre-dawn light, then sat at his desk and proceeded to idly pick at the crumpled articles of correspondence, while he waited for Bodahn to wake up and draw him a bath.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Long chapter is long.

Thank you for the reviews. As much as I love writing about these two, I doubt I would have the drive to continue without any readers. This has turned out to be so much longer than I planned.

Anyway. Following the flashback is a scene that, to me, felt really rushed in the game - going to the Fade. Compared to the Origins, it was just lame. Not sure my version is much better, but I gave it a go. (This is after Chapter 9 in timeline.)

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><p><em>It was over. The Arvaarad collapsed, his great, horned head half hacked from his shoulders. All that remained of the Saarebas was a grotesquely shackled carcass that still convulsed and crackled with electricity on the wharf.<em>

_The sounds of battle were receding. But was the fight really at an end, or was it Fenris himself who was fading?_

_The sword fell from his hand as he lifted his fingers and touched the life that was gushing in heaves of air and blood from his throat. Softly like a lover, the stony pier came up to claim him, and the sky fell on him like a hot blanket of blue and piercing light, cut through by the great masts of the Tevinter ship that groaned and sighed on the waves nearby._

_He marveled at how easy and peaceful it would be to just die. It never seemed to take much trying._

_Then a shadow fell between him and the embrace of earth and heaven. A hand pressed against his throat and, with a touch that was pure agony, silenced the song of blood. The hole in his windpipe sealed. He inhaled, painfully like a newborn. His back arced like a bow near breaking, and he screamed as the shards of his ribs popped out of his lungs and his broken left arm straightened. Skin grew over bared flesh, crushed organs became whole again. The poisonous things that had invaded him through the wounds disintegrated into harmless compounds._

_Perhaps it was fitting, how much more painful it was to be healed than to receive those injuries._

_Once more Fenris remained alive, and lay on the sand-sprinkled stones under the sweltering sun, half conscious. Water streamed from his eyes as his master's hand brushed his face. He knew it was to search from him the evidence of health, yet his wretched soul still reached for it, longing for the comfort he would never receive. And as if already forgetting what it had just been through, his treacherous body responded to the touch, and shamed him._

"_He seems healthy enough," said Hadriana from above, her voice cold._

_Danarius laughed softly. "Yes, his resilience never ceases to amaze me. You have been a good wolf today, my little Fenris."_

_It was not the first time he had saved his master's life, nor the last. The reward for his service was a cold meal and a night's sleep on a hard bedroll, back in the sacked fortress which the Tevinter troops had claimed as their headquarters in the conquered port. Unlike other slaves or soldiers, Fenris was allowed a room of his own: a small servant's cell that was separated from his master's chambers by a heavy door._

_The night was hot, and the room with its tiny window was almost unbearably so. Yet he was exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as his head had hit the folded cloak that served as his pillow on the thin bed._

_After a few hours of sleep, Fenris woke up, drenched in sweat, to the feeling of something closing around his throat. It lifted him from the bed and slammed him against the wall._

_His heart raced and his markings flashed into life. The cell was pitch dark, and in the hot, black void he clawed at the invisible grip, only to find that there was nothing there. Then the stink of blood magic crushed his senses. He gagged against the pressure, but there was room neither to breathe nor to throw up._

_Someone stepped close to him. He felt a hot breath against his ear. The reek of blood grew stronger, laced through with the scent of over-ripe apricots and almond milk._

"_Slut," Hadriana whispered. "You like it when he touches you, don't you?"_

_His markings threw the barest hint of white light on her features. From the corner of his eye he saw that her eyes were fixed on his face. Only later would it cross his mind how easy it would, once again, have been to use his gift against her._

_Self preservation was a luxury that the likes of him did not possess._

"_You wouldn't be so eager for his hands all over you if you knew what he once did to you. Have you seen the boys who warm his bed? What he does to them? The signs on the floor when they are carried away?"_

_His head was pounding, and his lungs burned with lack of breath. He clawed at his throat with hands that refused to believe they had no way to fight the thing that cut out his air._

"_You were his favorite once. His little cock slut. How prettily you cried and begged. You can't remember... But I'm sure your body does..."_

_The sound of his own heart beating grew louder than her voice. Slowly, his hands fell to his sides._

_Then the pressure at his throat relented slightly. His fingers flew back to his neck. He shuddered and inhaled through the small opening that had been allowed. The invisible grip still held him against the wall, and his breath came in wheezing pittances of air, but there was enough of it to at least reach back to the surface of reality._

_In the dim light of his shimmering markings, he saw that Hadriana was still standing close to him. She stared at him, quiet and unmoving. Was she angry? With Hadriana it was almost impossible to tell. Whether it was perfect discipline or just a lack of feeling, she never allowed herself to lose control. He knew she enjoyed tormenting him, but not the nature of her pleasure._

_In the end, that was just one of the ways he was forced to be alone – not unlike how his master kept him apart him from the other members of his household, or how his strange appearance intimidated those few who were allowed to approach._

_The sickening stink of blood lingered in the unmoving air, making it almost too thick to breath through his constricted throat. He saw her gaze travel down from his face. He was wearing his leathers, but no plate, and a narrow hand moved against the fastenings of his vest. His heart hammered in his chest as she brushed the lapels open. Cool night air caressed his sweat-slicked skin and his markings ached in a mocking contrast of what was to come._

_She bowed her head and kissed the thick white line that ran down the middle of his chest. A path of fire shot down through it._

_His head crashed into the stone wall. Drops of spittle flew from his lips as he cried out, only to find he had no breath to make sound louder than guttural groans._

_The marking under her touch glowed fiercely at the contact._

"_Filthy wolf," she whispered against his burning skin. "By day, you pretend to be a proud beast, but we both know what you really are... And he knows it, too..."_

_She stroked his chest and pressed her hot mouth to where sweat trickled down the side of his jaw. The contours of her breasts and legs brushed against him through her thin linen shift. The reek of unnatural magic, the nauseating pressure against his windpipe, the pain in his lungs... and still her touch had its effect on him. She twisted his nipple between her fingers and he writhed helplessly. Then her hands traveled down the constricted shapes of his muscles and started to unbuckle the rest of his gear._

"_You were such a beautiful little harlot," she whispered in his ear. "Oiled and painted with green and gold, and the marks of a cane on you... Oh, they were so pretty on your dark skin..."_

_For a second he was actually afraid he would die of suffocation. Then it no longer mattered, as she found his painfully gorged member and moved her hand over it in an imitation of affection. Strangled animal-like noises rose from his tortured throat. His fingers fell from his neck, to clutch pitifully at her pleated shift. White and blue sparks were swimming in the black field of his vision as she stroked him, quickly goading him toward the edge._

"_Do you still want him now, wolf?"_

_In the end, darkness claimed him, but not before she had what she came for._

_The following day, Danarius saw the dark bruising on his throat, but said nothing. Hadriana, on the other hand, did not look at him. Perhaps she regretted speaking so freely of his forbidden past? There was a bandage around her left wrist, and beneath it an ill healed, unnatural wound. Every time Fenris saw it, he recalled the nauseating stink of maleficar that had lingered long after her. In the morning, the spatters of her blood had still been visible on the floor, and when a servant had brought food, Fenris had been far too ill to break his fast._

_But physical discomfort was a thing that passed. It was far worse that, despite her words, he couldn't stop longing for his master's affection._

* * *

><p>After lying on the floor of his tavern room for what seemed like hours, Hawke got on his feet and took his mabari out. He relieved himself in the back alley, returned inside and headed for the bar. Trying to survive the headache that was threatening by turns to kill him and leave him alive, he sat at a table hugging a tankard of watered-down ale, trying to get some moisture stick into his tongue, which had somehow turned into a mummified mouse.<p>

Finally Isabela appeared. Upon seeing Hawke, who still cradled his head in his hands at the table, she gave a brilliant smile and walked to him with all the swagger she could muster.

"Good morning, tiger! All fresh and ready to face some demons?"

Hawke groaned.

"You look a bit green around the edges," the Rivaini said and leaned over the table, feigning concern. Hawke glanced at her from between his fingers. The woman seemed positively cheerful.

"Go away," the mage said and went back to staring at his ale.

Something fell on the table in front of him. It looked like a wad of tobacco.

"A gift from an admirer," Isabela said and straightened. Her voice was one Hawke had come to associate with horrible practical jokes. "Come on, big guy, I'm not pulling one over you... this time," she said and rolled her eyes at his expression. "I swear on my mother's grave that it'll make you feel better."

Hawke was not sure whether her mother was even dead, but perhaps out of sheer desperation, he decided that she had no reason to poison him. The terrible taste did make him wonder for a second, but in the end she was right - whatever the thing was, chewing on it restored him enough to order some chowder and bread from Nora, then take the walk to Hightown to have a quick bath and change his gear. The prospect of going to solve whatever problem Feynriel had gotten himself into now only felt like the second worst idea of his life. When he asked Isabela about the medicine later, she just winked and and said something completely incomprehensible about not looking a gift ship in the hold.

As noon approached, Hawke, Isabela and Varric walked through the shantytowns and corridors of Lowtown to the Alienage. Isabela was still in far too good a mood to be trusted. It certainly wasn't just because the rains had relented for a moment, and sun was peeking through the clouds on Kirkwall's freshly washed streets. The woman might have had a wicked hand at cards, but away from the game table, she was the worst actor Hawke knew. She obviously had a nice juicy secret stashed away in her dirty mind, and Hawke knew her too well to let down his guard.

Sure enough, after descending a twisting alley through the rundown huts to the large central hex of the Alienage, Isabela waved her hand happily and pointed at a slender, dark figure in the shadow of the _vhenadahl_. Obviously, this had been the cause of her mirth.

Hawke frowned. Then blood rushed into his head, and with it, his already defeated headache returned.

"Elf! Didn't expect to see you here," Varric exclaimed.

"I seem to get that a lot, these days," Fenris answered mildly as he walked out of the great tree's shade. He had his thumbs under his belt, and seemed perfectly groomed, to the extent his dour and outlandish outfit allowed. "It's an alienage, I'm an elf. What could be more natural than for me to be here?"

"Fenris, my boy, you are trying to make a joke!" Varric grinned broadly.

The elf inclined his head almost amiably.

"But you hate the alienage," Hawke sputtered. And with that, the truth finally dawned. His eyes narrowed and he turned toward the rogue. "Isabela... _You_ set this up, didn't you?"

The blasted woman just smiled and winked at him. Hawke realized with fleeting horror that she knew far more than she should have.

"I understood you might be in need of assistance," Fenris said. "I have come to offer it. Should you find it necessary?"

Hawke felt surreal. It almost sounded like the elf was in a high spirits. He also looked extraordinarily handsome with sunlight dancing on his white hair and green eyes. Hawke could not help but notice his slender hips, strong arms and athletic shoulders, and remember certain things he shouldn't have thought of in public. Blood crept into his face. He was painfully aware of his own sickly complexion and of the shadows under his red eyes.

"I thought you left," he said. The words sounded like the croak of an oversized frog in his ears.

"The prospect of braving the uncertain seas at this time turned out to be... untempting. Also, I find myself in lack of necessary funds to make a journey, and the option of hiring myself on a ship as a sailor does not appeal."

"A new reason for me to find sails, I see," Isabela purred. "I promise that to secure a passage on my brig, you'll only have to lean on the railing and look pretty."

Fenris... smirked? "I shall keep that in mind, madam. Hawke..?"

The mage was at a complete loss of what to say. He felt like he was caught in the middle of a huge joke, with himself as the butt of it.

Fortunately, he was spared of more embarrassment by Feynriel's mother, Arianni, who had just arrived at the hex and caught sight of them. The Dalish elf immediately ran to Hawke, wringing her hands and crying in relief, as if she had not really dared to hope he would come. Hawke was so happy of not having to formulate more coherent sentences while looking at Fenris, that he didn't even care how the elf seemed to take silence as a sign of assent.

After that, things blessedly progressed at their own weight, and the unfurling events kept Hawke from thinking too closely about the elf's presence or the recent memories that alcohol had only momentarily managed to wipe from his mind.

* * *

><p>Fenris voiced surprisingly few objections about Keeper Marethari's ritual, and indeed, upon arriving in the sickly unreality beyond the Veil, he seemed almost unaffected by it. Hawke himself felt rather queasy – the waking Fade was a thing far removed from its pale version in his dreams, and the lingering hangover did not help. Isabela and Varric spent quite a while heaving imaginary vomit in the imaginary back alley where they had appeared.<p>

"Let us remain no longer than we must," Fenris said. "Nothing here is real. One can never tell for certain what is alive and what is merely part of the scenery, in the Fade."

Hawke saw Isabela look with suspicion at the rickety old trash box in which she had been depositing her breakfast.

"How come you know so much about the Fade?" the mage asked, still trying to hold onto the contents of his own stomach. The ground seemed to be breathing beneath his feet, and the sky between the tall stone walls was a sickly mix of green and purple.

"I... have been here before. Danarius often traveled beyond the Veil. My branding allows me to come here more easily than normal men, so I sometimes accompanied him as a bodyguard. He was no _somniari_, but what he found helped him to secure a position in the senate."

Varric got up from the corner where he'd been hugging the unstable ground. "So... Do you have any idea which way to go, Elf?" he asked, still looking quite sick, but obviously determined to overcome his nausea. "Because I'd be damned glad to get out of here and make this into a nice uplifting story where I _don't_ spend hours puking my guts out."

Fenris looked about him. "This is the Alienage, isn't it? We must find Arianni's home. Most dreamers in the Fade are drawn to familiar things."

In a moment Isabela, too, had recovered enough to move on. They found that they were, indeed, in a very strange and distorted version of the Kirkwall elves' district. Ramshackle houses stood right next to Dalish tents and conical Tevinter towers. Above everything swarmed an unnatural mockery of a sky, and against it beyond the roofs, Hawke saw a dreadful dark shadow that could only be the Black City.

After a bit of searching, they found Arianni's home. Hawke was not even truly surprised to find a sloth demon waiting for them within. It greeted them almost politely, and had a proposition to make; Hawke did not really need Fenris to warn him that he should not trust anything it said. Still, it proved surprisingly difficult to be rude to the creature, and when he leveled his staff at it, he found himself regretting that he had not listened longer to what it had to say.

* * *

><p>Now in Sundermount among the Dalish, Hawke watched as the young half-elf mage Feynriel looked with new horror upon the old elven woman beside him. "Keeper Marethari warned me of this," he cried. "You're not the Keeper! Mother's people have no Circle, but they don't consort with demons!"<p>

Feynriel retreated a few steps and ran.

The Keeper turned to look at Hawke. The expression on her kindly, tattooed face could most closely be called impetuous annoyance.

"You! Why did you interfere?" she asked in a puzzled tone. Then she made an odd gesture, arched her back, and flew to the sky. Shimmering magic wove patterns around and beneath her, and in the blink of an eye, a great pride demon stood in her stead.

Hawke only recognized the creature from the drawings he had seen in his father's books. He knew that pride demons were the strongest who visited Thedas; whether the Fade held spirits even more powerful, he could not say. The great beast hulked above them on the clearing, covered in intricate, sharp scales the color of a fresh bruise, and as tall as the surrounding mountain trees. Strangely, the elven warriors around them did not seem to notice the change; they gathered around the demon protectively like they might have done for their beloved leader. Hawke could not help but wonder whether they were just figments of the demon's imagination, or real people, trapped in a dream.

"With my power joined to his, Feynriel would have changed the world," the demon lamented in a voice that was hard like the booming of a thousand distant war drums, and soft like the caress of a velvet glove.

Hawke leaned on his staff, stupefied by the creature's size and by the power that emanated from it. "Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Wryme. And who are you, mageling?"

To Hawke's right, Fenris moved. "Why do you speak to it?" he hissed. "We must kill it! Let us put it down before it has a chance to tempt us."

"As much as this encounter interests me for the sake of my art, I must agree," Varric muttered, rather nervously. And Isabela did not seem to object.

But Hawke found himself strangely reluctant to listen to his companions. Surely there was no harm in hearing what the creature had to say? It might even tell something important about Feynriel.

"I would have given Feynriel what he wants," Wryme said. "By which right did you decide that he should not have it?"

Hawke lifted his chin. "By right of being his friend. The boy only wants his freedom. And have you ever seen an abomination? They are _ugly_."

The demon did not really have expressions, but what happened on its scaly, beast-like face could perhaps be called a frown. "You put such stock in appearances? Perhaps that is why your friends' loyalty only goes skin-deep."

"What on Thedas is that supposed to mean?" Hawke glanced at his companions, who by now were staring at him strangely. What was wrong with them?

"Do you think they follow you because they _like_ you..?" Wryme droned pleasantly.

Suddenly Hawke saw that the creature's words made terrible sense.

Wasn't Varric mostly interested in him as material for his stories? Isabela wanted him to find her a ship. And Fenris... Fenris just planned to use him to kill Danarius. Maybe the elf had even seduced him to ensure that he played along?

Had someone else been able to secure what his companions wanted, they would have turned against him without second thought.

"Yes... I see," he said and narrowed his eyes.

"Hawke!" Fenris cried and drew his sword. "We must kill it, now!"

The mage's knuckles whitened around his staff. "I'm growing tired of you trying to tell me what to do. Let me remind you that _I_ am the leader of this merry band of misfits."

"I'm starting to doubt the wisdom of that."

"Would you two get over yourselves? We're facing a bloody demon here!" Isabela hissed, hands on her daggers.

Hawke paled. Something was horribly wrong. Suddenly his head ached again.

Wryme did not have eyes, yet its gaze traveled, shifting from the mage to the elf beside him. Hawke almost staggered as the weight of its attention lifted from him. Obviously the demon had found something more interesting to focus on.

"How... intriguing," Wryme said. "Such tension. Such... potential. Tell me, elf... If you had the choice, would you choose your freedom over this mage?"

"Silence, demon," Fenris growled and stared at Hawke in an obvious attempt to not look at the malevolent spirit.

"But there is so much for us to discuss." Wryme's voice had become a soothing, insidious drone. "You think you won your freedom long ago. Yet you follow this man, who you cannot trust, and who finds you little more than a fascinating beast, a thing to please his penchant for the exotic, for the bizarre. Did you escape Danarius just to become the pet for another mage? To serve as his catamite? Would you not like to be your own master for a change? To choose your own destiny?"

Imaginary sweat was beading on the elf's forehead. "Shut up," he said and bent as if beneath a huge weight. "Hawke, I beg you... just kill it! I cannot do it alone!"

Hawke fought dizzily to lift his staff. Too late he realized that Fenris had been right, that they should have attacked the demon when it had first revealed itself. By now they were all under its influence. It was becoming increasingly hard to even move.

"The magisters have left their marks on your body and your mind," Wryme crooned. "Is it not your deepest wish, to be released of them? To be released of this fear? With my aid, you could be free forever. You could have power to challenge any who would chain you."

Hawke saw the elf's eyes lose focus and concentrate on something only he could see. Then Fenris shook his head as if to clear it, and looked at the demon, standing straight, no longer avoiding its invisible gaze on him.

"To face them as an equal..." he said, as if wondering at the idea.

Hawke fought to speak. "Fenris, no," he managed to gasp. "If you accept, you are no better than the magisters!"

But it seemed that whatever Fenris most deeply wished, it ran deeper and was more demanding than Hawke's worldly ambitions, or their shaky mutual respect. In horror, Hawke saw him nod.

The demon reached out its immense hand and caressed the elf's face. "Yes... You do not need these humans, my friend. Your affection for them is a weakness. Is it not safest to be alone... to be feared?"

Fenris bowed his head. White hair fell across his eyes, hiding them from Hawke's sight.

"What would you want from me?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Just a moment of your time."

"No!" Hawke cried, finally lashing out with his power and breaking free of the demon's spell.

But it was already too late.

* * *

><p>Killing Fenris in the Fade was one of the hardest things Hawke had ever done. And not only on emotional level; it was actually bloody difficult to kill the elf, even beyond the Veil where the rules were different, and magic held an advantage over anyone whose skills relied on the laws of nature. And while Fenris might have hesitated a bit here and there, he definitely did not succumb to his fate easily.<p>

The distorted quality of the place did at least yield Hawke the small comfort of not actually having to look at the elf's burned and cut corpse. After his spirit escaped from him, Fenris just vanished in a flash of blue. So did Wryme, making Hawke uncertain whether they had actually killed the demon, or just temporarily banished it to some other level of the Beyond.

In the Fade, his magic was only a twisted, if a more powerful approximation of reality, but it turned out that he was still able to heal. This was fortunate for Isabela, who – despite the fact that nothing here was real - did not exactly enjoy having her right arm cut off and her guts spilled to the ground.

The memory of being hacked into pieces because of one demon's tricks did not, however, prevent her from falling prey to another.

They encountered a desire demon in another of Feynriel's dreams. After breaking the dream and sending the half-elf youth running, they again became the center of their adversary's attention. This time they managed to pull their weapons when the demon revealed itself – attacking it felt impossible, however. The creature was far too beautiful to kill without hearing it out.

Hawke was almost relieved when the succubus decided to ignore Hawke's desires, and latch onto Isabela instead.

"Should I turn around now to let you stab me in the back? Or would you rather it be a surprise?" he asked when he saw that the Rivaini was considering the demon's words.

"You are just the sweetest!" the rogue declared, spinning one of her daggers idly in a stunning display of dexterity. "You should know by now that I win because I cheat. And may I add that those are rather bold words from someone who fucked me just to get over a hopeless crush?"

"That is the demon talking, not you," Hawke said. "You would never -"

Isabela's lips twisted in her familiar ambiguous smirk. "Oh, poor thing. Does it hurt, being betrayed by the ones you let close?"

"_The Siren's Call Two_ awaits in Kirkwall Harbor," the desire demon purred behind her. "I'll be under the furs in the Captain's quarters."

"I like big boats, I cannot lie," she quipped, and proceeded to be the second companion Hawke had to kill that day.

* * *

><p>The experience of returning from the Fade was only slightly less jarring than entering it. It took a while before Hawke was able to get up from the coarse rush mat where he had been lying.<p>

Several hours had passed beyond the Veil, and it seemed that time had gone by this side of it, too. The curtains were drawn against curious eyes, and a cheap oil lamp was burning on the table, shedding its insufficient light on the six people in the small, dilapidated room; Marethari kneeling beside Hawke, Isabela and Varric sitting at the table; Arianni pacing about and wringing her hands in anxiety. Behind them, Fenris leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and head bowed, eyes hidden behind his hair.

"Feynriel has mastered his powers," Hawke said as he finally got on his shaky feet. He immediately felt a touch of the same claustrophobia that had bothered him when they first arrived in Arianni's house. Elves were not tall people, and alienage houses tended to be low. There was less than a handspan between the top of his head and the ceiling.

Arianni burst into tears. "Then he lives? You saved him? I cannot thank you enough! Keeper Marethari, may I return with you to the Sunderlands? I would like to ask my son's forgiveness."

"Of course,", Marethari said. "It was you who chose to stay away."

"He must go elsewhere to train," Hawke said slowly. He was in a completely wrong state of mind to find diplomatic words for what happened, and thus chose to disclose as little as possible. "There is no one in Kirkwall to help him. He asked me to say goodbye."

Feynriel's mother froze. "My son! No! I must find him before he goes." Giving them no chance to convince her otherwise, she went immediately to pack her things.

"It is wise for him to seek guidance," Marethari said and turned to look at Hawke. Her old eyes searched his face. "Kirkwall cannot provide what he needs. But where will he go?"

After all that had happened, Hawke was unable to lie. "Tevinter."

This finally struck Fenris from his brooding. He lifted his head, and his eyes fixed on the mage in disbelief. "What?"

"It was not my idea," Hawke said blandly. "Feynriel thought of it himself."

"I was not speaking of that! Hawke, what have you done? You should have killed him and made him Tranquil! I thought this was made perfectly clear before we left?"

"Does this mean I'm not getting my ship?" Isabela muttered suddenly, still staring at the table. "Bugger it all!"

Fenris ignored her, and spoke to Marethari. "Keeper, this is a grave mistake. The little sna... the boy is _somniari._ There have been no dreamers in the Imperium for ages. Feynriel will become a magister, perhaps worse."

"That may happen," the old woman said levelly. "And it may not. We are not in possession of the knowledge to say whether this is for the best, my troubled child. But it would have been ill to slay a young man when there is a chance for him to learn how to master his powers and use them for good."

"Not all magisters are evil, Fenris." Hawke felt far too tired to argue with the elf, but apparently the choice was not his.

"Yes, I'm sure he will become a very benevolent one, a veritable jewel of the Imperium. Especially since he's been treated so kindly in Kirkwall and Sundermount. And to think that I helped this come to pass..!"

"Helped..?" Hawke stepped toward the elf. Suddenly the tumble-down room felt far too small for the two of them. "You turned against us! If you call that helping, I fear to think how you do the opposite!"

Fenris glowered up at him, eyes dark with emotion. "_I_ wasn't the one who chose to exchange pleasantries with a pride demon! No one can resist a spirit of that caliber! I told you we should kill it. The failure was yours, not mine!"

"Guys..?" Varric stepped between them. The gesture might have had more effect, had he been tall enough to prevent the two men from continuing to stare at each other above his head. "Not that it isn't entertaining to listen you two quarrel, but should you perhaps save this discussion for some other time?"

It was Fenris who gave up first, and turned aside. "Ah, what's the use," he said in a defeated voice. "I suppose I should be grateful that the demon found me a more tempting target. And why did I think matters would end up differently? Take a mage to the Fade... A thief would have less temptation in a treasury."

Fenris lingered in the doorway for a while, as if waiting for Hawke to gainsay him. But to his mortification, Hawke found that, once again, the elf had managed to render him in a complete loss of words. Least of all such that might have convinced Fenris to think otherwise. After all, arguing against the truth would have been mere sophistry, and Hawke had been subjected to enough meaningless verbal sparring that day, already.

After a few moments, Fenris took his leave. And even Keeper Marethari's warm words of gratitude did nothing to ease Hawke's fear that he had just completely destroyed what little faith the elf had started to have in him.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: I listen Muse's Map Of The Problematique on repeat, Fenris gets drunk and is sexy. Hawke approves, and does stupid shit. Kirkwall needs an AA group._

_Again, thank you for reading, and especially for alerts/favorites/reviews._

_Oh my, over 50K words now. I'll try to wrap up Act 2 in the next chapter and gradually get on with the conclusion to this story._

_By the way, I did a drawing of Fenris yesterday - if you want to see how he looks like in my twisted little mind, check out my DA gallery, my handle is 'katjak' :-) I might even end up drawing a few illustrations for this story..._

_Edit: thanks for ErinM31 for pointing out that the timeline was hard to understand, I tried to fix that a bit._

* * *

><p>One excuse was not enough for Hawke to visit the elf. He needed three.<p>

The rains had finally passed and left behind a hard, cold wind that swept Kirkwall's streets, some of which Hawke now threaded on foot toward Fenris's manor. At nightfall, many Hightown residents were heading for visits or entertainment. Kirkwall's steep stairwells did not favor carts or rickshas, so most who could afford it went around in sedan chairs. Hawke himself hated the things and never got into one if he could avoid it, walking instead like most of his countrymen, although for different reasons; many of the sedan chair bearers were of Fereldan origin, whereas he just preferred to use his legs.

Under his cloak, Hawke was wearing a slashed leather doublet, breeches and tall boots, all soft and well worn. His neck cloth was meticulously clean and he'd had his beard and hair trimmed. On his head he had a wide brimmed, plumed hat. The impression of being just another bourgeois passenger on his way to a tavern was, however, slightly spoiled by the staff at his back. He'd lately become too paranoid to leave it at home, and in Hightown, the weapon made him rather easy to recognize. Thus the purpose of his hat was to spare him from seeing the curiosity of others, rather than prevent him from attracting said curiosity in the first place. The latter had by now become almost impossible in any attire.

On his way through Hightown, Hawke did his best not to dwell on his steamy night with Fenris eight days ago. But the less tried to think of it, the harder it of course became not to do so, and by the time he'd reached the elf's door, he'd worked himself up so badly that he sorely regretted not having taken any 'alone time' before leaving.

Among the gaily lit noble homes of the Upper Estates, Fenris's manor stood like a dark scar. Its once elegant stone facade had been covered by ivy, and the plastering on the pillars and the terrace that shaded the front door was deteriorating worse than Hawke's dwindling faith in Kirkwall authorities.

The door moved about a bit as Hawke used the knocker. Upon closer examination, he saw that the lock had been smashed, and from the rust on it, this had happened some time ago.

Time passed, and Hawke knocked again. He was getting uncomfortably aware of the curious glances that he attracted while standing at the door of the unlit house. Maybe the elf was not home? For once, trespassing did not feel like an option. Who knew what surprises the Tevinter prick had left behind for unwanted guests?

How long should he wait? A minute? Two? Maybe five?

Suddenly the door was cast open. Fenris stood upon the threshold, a lit lantern in one hand, the other holding his Orlesian greatsword.

Hawke's breath hitched in his throat. Fenris was not wearing his armor. Instead, he had donned some sort of home clothes: a long sleeveless vest and breeches, both of dark grey wool and trimmed with ribbon. Probably second or third hand elven clothes from the Alienage bazaar, but surprisingly in what was almost the correct size – just a bit tight across the chest, which was probably why the elf had only buttoned the vest at the waist. Which, consequently, left a lot of buttons open, and an expanse of his lean, lyrium tattooed body available for scrutiny.

Fenris raised his lantern. Hawke tried hard to concentrate on looking him in the eyes. Not that it was _that_ much easier than the other options.

"Well, well," the elf said, his bass voice lowered into a deep drawl, and for some incomprehensible reason amused. "If it isn't the great demon slayer and slave owner, the friend of Tevinter magisters. What brings you here, Hawke?"

"My good old pair of bow legs," the mage heard himself say. "And unfinished business."

Fenris peered at from under his white hair and eloquent black brows. "Well, what is it?"

Hawke glanced over his shoulder. "Do we really need to discuss it _here?_ I hear the old ladies are particularly vehement in this part of town."

He was more than prepared to have the door slammed in his face, perhaps after getting the burning lantern thrown at him. To his surprise, however, Fenris did neither. After a moment's consideration, the elf jerked his head toward the dark corridor beyond, and turned to return inside, leaving the door open for Hawke to follow.

"Watch your step," Fenris said. His lantern hovered five steps in front of the mage in the darkness of the old, dusty house. "There are some traps. Here... and here. Oh, and try not to disturb the corpse."

"Corpse?"

"There." The elf waved his lantern, and its light fell on a indisputably perished Carta thief on the entrance hall floor, so long dead that mainly skin, bones and hair remained. "Something to deter curious neighbors."

Hawke sidestepped the grisly warning. "Or just Imperial hospitality? After all, I've met only one Tevinter who hasn't tried to kill me at first sight."

The elf said nothing. _Perhaps not the best choice of jest?_ Or maybe he was over-analyzing.

Fenris still used the room he'd chosen over three years ago, and it remained much the same. A well tended fire burned in the fireplace, and there were several empty wine bottles lying around. All sorts of gear, clothing, weaponry and knickknacks littered the furniture and the floor, as well as the remains of several finished meals. The wealth of rugs and pillows was unchanged, as was the the old-fashioned, sagging canopy bed. Strangely the room appeared almost cozy for its mess. Unlike the cold, sad room Hawke had walked into after Fenris had left, this was a place where someone lived.

Fenris placed his lantern and sword on the table. "Welcome to my humble abode," he said and gave Hawke an elegant, if slightly unstable bow. "I would offer you some refreshments, but the larder is... remarkably empty."

Hawke unstrapped his staff and placed it against the wall, then adjusted his hat on his head, bewildered at the elf's less than belligerent manner.

Then he suddenly understood. His eyebrows lifted.

"Fenris. You're drunk?"

The elf swayed against the table and glanced at the empty bottles on it. There were six of them. Obviously not all from tonight, but still. "Tiddly, perhaps?"

"Tiddly my arse. Three sheets to the wind and missing an anchor!"

"I admit nothing." The elf's haughty demeanor was somewhat spoiled by having to suppress a hiccup. The small twitch that ensued tossed his rather long hair over his eyes.

Hawke had never seen Fenris very intoxicated before, not even years ago, when the elf actually sometimes visited the Hanged Man. But what did he know of Fenris? Maybe the elf sponged up cheap wine all night long in the seclusion of his dilapidated manor? Hawke remembered all too well their first kiss. It had tasted of wine, too.

Thinking of that kiss was of course a mistake. Hawke fidgeted uncomfortably at the tightening in his breeches. Things were not improved by the fact that the elf looked so well. And that he was half naked, compared to what Hawke was used to. He had obviously just bathed; his soft white hair turned about his face and neck and pointed ears in a way that told it was not completely dry. Mellowed by the wine, Fenris had for once relaxed from his wary crouch, and leaned against the table in a rather picturesque pose. Something as simple as his elegant, long fingered hand that now brushed away the hair from his eyes felt to Hawke like the single most beautiful thing in the world.

"So..?" the elf asked, after the silence had stretched to an absolute breaking point.

_By the Maker, am I supposed to say something coherent?_ Hawke distinctly recalled having had several perfectly acceptable reasons to visit Fenris, but now he couldn't remember any of them. "Where on Thedas do you bathe?" he blurted.

"Excuse me?"

_Great. _ That_ should put me in his good graces._ Hawke would have smacked himself, had it not only made him appear even more like a maniac. "Ah, just... I don't think you go to public baths. So... do you just dance on the roof when it rains, or what?"

"Well, this house belonged to a Tevinter merchant. And Tevinters like their cleanliness. So, there is a pool in the basement. It is fed by the aqueduct, same as the baths. With the exception that there's nothing to heat it up." Fenris grabbed a mostly empty bottle from the table. "So it's cold like a fish cunt." He smirked and took a swig.

It shocked Hawke to hear something so obscene out of the elf's mouth. The phrase was obviously of Tevinter origin, Kirkwallers said that something was cold like the Waking Sea, or a Feraldan whore.

Fenris pressed his palm against the table behind him. The pose tilted his lean hips slightly forward, and Hawke quickly looked away. He prayed that his hard-on wasn't getting visible.

"I doubt you walked all the way here just to comment on my drinking habits or personal hygiene, Hawke. You mentioned some unfinished business?"

Mercifully, Hawke now remembered at least one of his reasons to come. "Oh, yes." He untied a pouch from his belt and tossed it to the elf. Despite his inebriation, Fenris caught it from midair with one hand.

"What is it?"

"Your share of the Deep Roads."

Fenris glanced at the pouch, then dropped it on the tabletop and drank from the bottle again. "My thanks."

"That's it? You're not even curious?"

The green eyes wandered as if there really had been something strange to the question. "Should I be?"

"I might be fleecing you. It could be filled with rocks, for the love of Maker!"

"I know you are a man of your word, Hawke. And truth be told, even if that purse lacks a few sovereigns... it is of no consequence to me."

The purse in question contained several rubies and diamonds, some of them the size of Hawke's fingertip, as well as a handful of gold and silver for immediate needs. If anything, it held _more_ than the elf's fair share. It would make a wealthy man of him. He could stop living like a vagrant or a squatter, get a place of his own, not one that constantly reminded him of his former master. But it seemed like he couldn't care less. Was he really that indifferent to coin? Or did the source of that money disgust him?

The thought stung more than Hawke cared to admit. But at least the feeling sobered him up enough to recall the rest of his excuses.

"The Viscount has asked me to talk with the Arishok. I know you speak Qunari and know their customs. Would you consider coming along tomorrow? We're leaving around noon from the Hanged Man."

"Sure." Fenris made to drink again, then realized that the bottle was empty. "_Venhedis..._"

Hawke had not expected the Tevinter to agree so easily. "That's... Thank you, Fenris. It will help me a lot."

"Will it..?" Fenris seemed to consider the idea, then suddenly gave him an unabashed, drunken smile of amusement. Hawke almost went blind.

"You know, Hawke, I have been thinking." The elf put the empty bottle away and crossed his arms. "You are not stupid or evil. Just ignorant. Perhaps I should educate you in the ways of the Qunari, and of the Imperium, hmm? Otherwise, I'm partly to blame, am I not? When you pull those misguided stunts of yours."

_Who are you, and what did you do to Broody? _Hawke knew angry Fenris, and he knew gloomy Fenris, and he even knew the lukewarm nothing-is-actively-annoying-me-right-now Fenris. But he had no idea who _this_ Fenris was.

"That reminds me, I – I have something else for you," he stammered.

"What is this, give gifts to the poor elf party?" Fenris chuckled and said something in Arcanum. Apparently it was something amusing, for he then burst into private laughter.

Hawke had never heard the elf laugh so unguardedly. He had a beautiful laugh, deep and melodic. Hawke was pretty sure his ears would melt with happiness. Other parts of his body were certainly not becoming softer, though.

Laughing made the elf's hair fall over his eyes again. Hawke wanted nothing more than to just go to him and brush those soft locks aside and... And oh Maker, his heart was really starting to pound, now. He recalled vividly how Fenris smelled during sex. How utterly he had submitted when Hawke fucked him. That hot mouth under his lips, the lyrium tingling like a crazy wet dream... Sweat broke on Hawke's skin and he licked his parched lips.

Hawke took a step toward the elf and pulled something from inside his doublet. _It's just to give him this. _Every step felt heavier and heavier, just like his conscience. _Just give it to him and go. You can do that, right?_

Fenris pushed himself slightly away from the table and looked up at the the mage through his unruly locks. His amusement had died away, and despite his intoxication he was now wary of the situation. That threatened reaction turned Hawke on more than he cared to admit.

The green eyes focused on what he was holding between them.

"It's... a book?"

" Yes, by Shartan, the Tevinter elf who... Well, you know about him, right..?" Hawke's voice sounded hoarse in his own ears.

"Of course I know about him! But I certainly didn't learn from books. You think they teach slaves to read?"

So the elf wasn't too drunk to get angry, after all. A shadow of familiar indignation flashed across his features.

A maddening trickle of sweat was running down Hawke's neck. His hard-on was by now truly uncomfortable in his smallclothes. _Did I really think I came here to give him a gift..?_

"Hawke?"

The mage closed his eyes. "Sweet Maker..."

He threw the book away, not looking where it landed. His fingers twined around a slender neck, pulled. His mouth found the elf's, and his other hand circled the boyish waist, crushing it against his own broader one. He never noticed that his hat was knocked off and fell to the floor.

The markings flared under Hawke's touch.

Fenris froze. His hands flew to the mage's shoulders, and glowed. But there was no sound of phasing. Hawke's fingers twisted in the the elf's hair, massaging the lines of lyrium beneath it, hungry for the strange effect they had on him.

Fenris swayed and a deep tremble ran through him. Without further resistance he let his mouth open and Hawke claimed it with his tongue.

Hawke had been dreaming of this for eight days and nights. No amount of jacking off or trips to the Blooming Rose had been able to give more than passing relief. In an attempt to get over the memory of their night together, Hawke had drowned himself in women, and even finally accepted Jethann's challenge, paying through his teeth for an experience that had been like becoming the canvas for a skilled artist. In the end, it had left him feeling just as empty as if the painter's brush had never touched him. Jethann had been a soft, garish, languid creature, full of lascivious humor and sophisticated bed tricks. And all Hawke had been able to think of was how there was nothing feminine or artificial about Fenris, how he was all taut muscle and angular bone and feverish strength. What Hawke had experienced with Jethann was professional and meant absolutely nothing. With Fenris, there was no need for tricks. A simple kiss made him afraid he would suffocate with lust.

Light-headed with the control he now had over Fenris, Hawke pushed him against the table, forcing him to lean on it. He made to open the buttons at the elf's waist, then yanked impatiently. Flimsily sewn buttons rattled against the floor, and Hawke's hand was free to roam the hard planes and ridges beneath, coiled through with sandpaper lines of lyrium. By now they were faintly visible even through Fenris's clothes. Touching him was not unlike holding a mage's staff with a lightning spell coursing through it.

Hawke leaned in for another kiss. He pushed his thigh between the elf's legs and felt the unmistakable shape of a very stiff cock against his hip. Not breaking the kiss, he started to work their erections together through wool and soft leather. Fenris rewarded him with a lewd moan that went straight into his balls.

The friction quickly built his pressure, and it would have been easy to just rut himself into a climax like that. But he was desperate to have more, if just for the second that he still had in him. He fought open his breeches and, praying he would not come immediately, took the elf's hand and wrapped it around him. The lyrium in Fenris's palm and fingers tingled electrically through him and his cock twitched with the strange pleasure.

He only managed a few thrusts into the man's hand before he spent himself.

When Hawke could see again, his face was against in the elf's neck, and Fenris was clinging to him as if for dear life. One arm around the elf's waist, Hawke pulled at the sash on his loins, letting his worn breeches fall open. Dizzily he kissed Fenris and started stroking him. The elf wrapped his arms around his neck and whimpered into his mouth.

Fenris did not take much longer than he had. The elf pulled at Hawke's hair and clothes as he started to come. His climax lasted for a long time and while it did, Hawke stared in mesmerized wonder at the beautiful agony on his face. He had rarely seen anyone come with such abandon.

When Fenris finally shuddered only occasionally, Hawke pulled him into his arms.

For a while the man just leaned against him, half out of it, face buried against his shoulder. Hawke stroked his soft hair. It smelled of soap and lyrium. For a fleeting moment, Fenris almost seemed to be at peace, and perhaps for that reason fragile and mortal, not at all like the bloodthirsty angel of vengeance Hawke was more used to.

_I love him_, Hawke realized more clearly than perhaps ever before. _And I know nothing about him._

Suddenly Fenris pushed him away. A blinding flash of pain felled Hawke to the floor.

Above him, Fenris spat a Tevinter curse, his unsteady voice like the gravelly hiss of a pebble beach. Soon, the sound of the door told Hawke that he had left the room. In far too much pain to think of following of even getting up, the mage rolled on his side and held his bleeding face, which felt like it had been shattered in thousand pieces.

Later, Hawke would count himself lucky. Fenris had been so drunk that his little inebriated punch was probably only about as punishing as that of a trained brawler who didn't have lyrium weaved through his flesh. The mage escaped with a mere broken nose, fractured chin bone and several loosened teeth. He didn't even need Anders to fix them.

His self respect was, unfortunately, far harder to mend.

* * *

><p>Hawke had no misconceptions why the Viscount has asked him to deal with the Arishok. It was not just because the Qunari warlord had requested him by name, or because he was capable of handling problems that required both discretion and deadly force; unlike people with an office, like the Seneschal, he was also expendable.<p>

To Hawke's surprise, Fenris joined their little company as they made their way to the Docks, where the Arishok and his small Qunari contingent had claimed their transient compound. The elf seemed sullen and lost in thought and did not speak unless necessary. Neither did he comment on the ugly bruises on Hawke's face. Despite a healing spell, they were still visible – and very sore. To Varric and Aveline Hawke explained that he had gotten in a brawl with a particularly ill-tempered prostitute. Fenris knit his brows at that, but it still wasn't enough to make the elf actually look at him.

As the day progressed, Hawke became almost glad of the half healed injuries. The pain kept him from concentrating too much on the elf's presence.

It turned out that someone had stolen a formula from the Qunari, one that the thief assumed to produce gaatlok – Qunari explosives – but would actually create saar-qamek, poison gas. The Arishok viewed the theft as Kirkwall's problem, and saddled it to Hawke, who dealt with it fast enough to be able to return to the compound before nightfall and report what had happened. Namely, that some crazy elf had decided to stir things up between the Qunari and her people, of whom increasingly many were escaping the poverty of the Alienage in favor of the guaranteed food and employment that the Qun would provide in exchange for their freedom. There was of course more to the story - there always was, wasn't there? - but Hawke saw no reason to bother the Arishok with unnecessary details.

Hawke could understand why the Qun had become so popular among beggars and criminals, but that did not mean he approved. Totalitarian cults that required complete disregard for personal opinion held no particular appeal for him. He saw little difference between slavery and submitting to the Qun. But he knew better than to voice his thoughts to the Arishok, who seemed unsurprised at the events, and whose only sign of gratitude was stooping to talk to him for a moment. During those short moments of dialog, Hawke for the first time started to understand the Arishok's frustration and hatred at being forced to remain in a human city that he found filthy, unworthy and corrupt. The mage also realized that what kept the Arishok in Kirkwall was not the lack of a ship to Par Vollen. But if so, what was the real reason he remained? The Arishok refrained from revealing more, and Hawke and his companions were booted out of the compound before he could find out anything genuinely useful to take back to the Viscount.

It was getting late, and Hawke decided to delay his visit to the Keep until the next day. Varric and surprisingly, Aveline wanted to go for drinks in the Hanged man, but Hawke was not in the mood for company or Isabela's sharp questions about the state of his face. He left the dwarf and the guard captain at the tavern door.

After reaching the stairs to the Hightown, he was finally approached by Fenris, who had continued to be silent for the whole day.

"That purse... it had more than my share, did it not?" the elf asked in a sullen voice while climbing the stairs at Hawke's side.

The mage shrugged. "I haven't paid you nearly enough for all you've done. Do with it what you will. Give it to the poor if you don't want it."

"So what exactly are you paying me for? For prostitution? Isn't that the word you used earlier?"

Hawke shot Fenris an appalled look. "You know I would never – I had to tell them something!"

"I would rather you tell them the truth."

"Which is?"

"That you raped me and I let you have it."

Hawke stood in his tracks in horror. "I didn't -" he realized they were attracting curious glances. "You can't call that rape!" he continued, lowering his voice. "You were willing enough!"

Fenris matched Hawke's gaze from the deep shadow of the staircase well. He had cut his hair and it no longer fell in his eyes. The impression he now gave was scornful and unforgiving, very unlike the man Hawke had met the night before. The bitter expression wiped away some of his natural comeliness and, for a second, Hawke saw the hatred that lived somewhere there, raw and unhealed despite all the years that had passed. It was a sharp and aloof misery, one that did not invite anyone to pity or empathize, that indeed rejected any compassion. Reaching out and comforting the elf would have been just as unthinkable for Hawke as to repeat any of his last night's actions. And yet he could not stop wanting to do exactly that, or feeling the very thing he shouldn't.

"Would you rather I simper my words and talk about abuse? I'm forced to like it, but that doesn't mean I want it, Hawke."

"You seemed to – you didn't fight back!" Hawke rubbed his eyes, and winced as his fingers brushed his recently broken nose. "I'm grasping at straws here, Fenris. Most of the time I have no idea what you are thinking, let alone what you want!"

The elf just stared at him, distant and cold like a stranger. Suddenly Hawke realized he had no idea how the elf's markings actually worked. He had assumed Fenris would be able to fight back if he really wanted to. What if that wasn't true? What if he really became helpless as soon as a mage touched him?

The thought was... appalling. Hawke could not help but look horrified, and from the elf's expression, his new suspicion was far closer to the truth than he'd liked.

"Oh Maker." _I've really messed things up royally, haven't I?_

He should have tried to apologize. He should have told that it wasn't just rutting to him, that he actually cared for Fenris. But the words didn't come. He had never spoken of his feelings to anyone, had no idea how to. Ironical, wasn't it? Usually words were exactly what he had too much of.

"As long as you understand where we stand," the elf said and started up the stairs again, toward Hightown that loomed above them as a dark cluster of ancient towers against the darkening sky.

_I wish I did_, Hawke thought. _I really do._

He lingered in the shadow of the stairwell until Fenris was gone, and only then ascended the steps and walked home, to drink whiskey and stare at his letters until he fell asleep in his chair. He woke up sore and drenched in sweat after ghastly nightmares that plagued him until dawn.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: This and the following chapter were written as one. But the text grew far too long. I'll post the second part tomorrow._

* * *

><p>There's only so much you can do to avoid someone whose whole circle of acquaintance consists of people you meet almost on a daily basis. Knowing this, Hawke tried to prepare himself to meet the elf again, and act like a sane person when he did. And still, when one night, upon walking into Varric's suite, he saw Fenris in a game of Diamondback with the dwarf and Isabela, he did – for one crazy moment – consider just turning and walking out.<p>

Of course he didn't. It would have been just as unthinkable to flee as to demand Fenris not to befriend people Hawke considered his closest companions. So the mage set his jaw and strolled across the room and joined his friends at the table, and for several hours tried not to look like there were ants running up and down his spine, or to reveal that he hardly saw the cards he held.

Fenris, on the other hand, did not seem much affected by his presence. But then again – the man _was_ a former slave, and had probably learned to hide his thoughts earlier than Hawke had learned to wear pants. Fenris was not very good at cards, but seemed to enjoy them nonetheless. After a couple of hours the elf had squandered five silvers and Hawke was afraid that this would, indeed, be the fate of his whole Deep Roads fortune. Then Anders arrived, cranky and tired from his work at the clinic, and Fenris muttered some sort of an excuse and found his way out.

During the months that followed, the elf's old armor and residence remained the same. It seemed that Hawke had been right, and the fortune he had bestowed upon Fenris was mainly spent on cards. And Varric and Isabela were only too eager to nurture the Tevinter's penchant for gambling. This, of course, meant that Hawke was destined to meet him often at the Hanged Man. The elf seemed fairly content to have him around, as long as there were other people present. Only when he was left alone with Hawke, he grew distant and evasive. Hawke interpreted this as mistrust, and was careful to keep things civil, and never to drink too much. Fenris had made it perfectly clear what he thought of Hawke's advances, and being called a rapist wasn't something the Fereldan could just brush away, however much he wanted to.

Before the Deep Roads, Fenris had made few attempts to actually fit in with their strange little flock. Now it almost felt like he did... in his own, slightly uncongenial way. He had little social grace or skill and was blunt to the point of being painful, and so indifferent to others' opinions that it bordered on sociopathy. But he made an effort to at least speak when he was spoken to, and Hawke's circle of friends took him in and accepted him as he was – his eccentricity seemed a passable fit for what was already a rather odd assortment of characters.

Just like all those years ago, however, the elf's tolerance had its limits. What little courtesy he paid Hawke was not extended to Anders or Merrill. Both the abomination and the blood mage clearly made him uncomfortable to the point that he quickly found a way to leave when they arrived.

It would have been suspicious to never ask Fenris to come along when they went to 'take care' of things. He was, after all, one of the most effective fighters Hawke knew. Also, as a former bodyguard, there was little he missed. Hawke knew he enjoyed hunting out blood mages and slavers, and even though his presence never improved Hawke's mental balance, it felt nice to offer him something he wanted and perhaps needed – something that only Hawke could provide.

But in the end, it meant keeping what Hawke himself wanted and needed always close and yet out of reach. As time passed, the situation started to have its toll on him. And he couldn't help but wonder how long he would be able to maintain the pretense of not caring. He had never been one to keep up façades; they were too tiring to keep up.

Then again, it seemed that those days, he was always tired.

It had started after the Fade. His former peaceful sleeping habits were a thing of the past. Often he found himself thinking of Bethany, of all the times his sister had come to break her fast bleary-eyed and without an ounce of her usual spirit. How blithely Hawke had dismissed her fears. Now he cringed to think of some of the callous things he'd said. That he'd been young was no excuse for not showing an ounce of sympathy. Had her nightmares been the same as his? Had she, too, spent hours in her bed afraid to fall asleep, knowing that when she did, the whispering shadows would be waiting? She was gone, and he would never know.

* * *

><p>Gascard DuPuis was vaguely familiar to Hawke from a few gatherings neither of them had been able to avoid. Nothing about the man seemed as it should. He was an effete fellow with an inactive man's paunch and weak shoulders; yet he was splendidly dressed and somehow managed to give the impression there was more to him than meets the eye. He had a guileless face, and an Orlesian tendency to never say what he truly meant. Even his age was hard to tell. Hawke guessed he was much older than he appeared.<p>

"I know what this looks like. But I did not hurt the woman," DuPuis said smoothly as he stood up from where he'd been kneeling next to a terrified, whimpering noblewoman. Hawke guessed her to be the missing Alessa Lyncell. She was lying on the polished tile floor of the richly furnished chamber, clearly fallen there in shock, or maybe after being hit.

"Blood magic," Fenris growled from nearby. And now Hawke saw it, too – a small, bleeding cut on the woman's bared arm.

Hawke tightened his fingers on his staff. Aveline stepped to his side, sword and shield in readiness, and Varric leveled Bianca. More often than not, they had been attacked by blood mages as soon as their true nature was revealed.

But DuPuis showed no sign of hostility. Obviously he knew he was outmatched.

"So, the wild-eyed hysteria is just for show, then?" Hawke said and nodded toward Alessa.

"You don't understand," DuPuis said. "Someone is after her. I had to keep her safe. I don't know why you're here, and I'll skin my guards for having let you in – but I shall forgo the intrusion for now, if you agree to co-operate. There's a killer out there, and I think he's playing us both. Let me explain."

Hawke felt the beginnings of a lately familiar headache throbbing in his temples. The staff was growing hot in his hand, and he fought an urge to just fry the little maggot. However unsavory, the man was yet to be proved guilty of anything but scratching the Lyncell woman a bit.

"All right. We'll see if you can talk yourself out of this."

"Twenty silver if he says, 'It wasn't me! It was the one-armed man!'" said Varric. As often happened, Hawke had no idea what he was talking about.

DuPuis paced slowly, careful not to antagonize them. Gesturing elegantly like Orlesians were wont to, he concocted a story about a sister that had been deprived of her life by the same madman who now terrorized Kirkwall. Alessa had just received white lilies – flowers that were sent by the killer to each victim. And DuPuis had taken the chance to track down whoever had murdered his sister. Or so he said.

"He's lying! He hurt me!" Alessa cried, finally recovered enough to stagger to her feet.

DuPuis lurched toward her, an exasperated look on his plain face as he grabbed the woman by the arm. "I've explained this, Lady Alessa! I need your blood to track you down if he took you. It was for your own protection!"

"Let go of me!" Alessa screamed in terror. She yanked her arm free and, almost tripping over the long hem of her dress in her haste, ran out of the room.

DuPuis pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and rubbed at his sweaty forehead in exasperation. "She'll go straight to the city guard. They'll ruin everything!" He directed his frustration at Hawke. "This is your fault, Fereldan! Why did you come? I was so close to finding him! _Sacre me..._"

"A sister, hmm?" Hawke said. "Clever story. Not the truth, though. Truth smells like roses and kittens. And all I can smell in this room is your fear."

"I can attest, it does smell a bit rank," Fenris remarked.

Aveline rolled her eyes.

DuPuis sputtered. "What are you talking about? Dirty mongrels, I haven't got time for this nonsense!" Then he suddenly seemed to register Aveline's presence. "You. Vallen woman. Captain of the guard, are you not? And you condone this... madness? This intrusion of my privacy? The Viscount shall hear of this, I swear!"

Hawke's migraine was getting worse. He raised his hand and DuPuis was thrown across the room, where an invisible force field pinned him to the wall.

"The truth. Now," Hawke said.

DuPuis' eyes rolled wildly. He spat curses in Orlesian, struggling in vain to break what held his arms and head against the dark paneling. "Ahhh! What is this? How are you doing this, you piece of shit! I warn you, I have friends in very high places!"

"New one?" Varric observed, obviously referring to the spell. "Seems useful. What do you call it, Hawke? 'Magi-glue'? I wish I could bottle and sell it."

Cursing his pounding head and his short temper, Hawke stood in place, his arm raised to maintain the spell. He was used to people breaking down or just attacking as soon as he threatened them. He knew what would logically come next, but did not really have the stomach for torture.

"May I?" Fenris asked, perhaps sensing his hesitation.

Hawke nodded his assent.

"Are you sure of this?" Aveline asked. "He's not just some ragged thug no one cares about."

Hawke snorted. "Well, then we'll just have to see which one of us Viscount Dumar finds more useful, won't we? An ugly Orlesian abomination, or a Fereldan apostate who saved his son."

Aveline shook her head, but did not press the matter.

DuPuis now stared at at Fenris, who had sheathed his sword and come to stand in front of him. Obviously the Orlesian was trying to decide what to make of the strange looking elf.

Fenris raised his hand to DuPuis' chest. His markings flashed briefly and blue light ghosted over his skin and armor. "This will hurt, maleficar," he said, his voice so menacing that it sent shivers down Hawke's spine._ Maker, I'm such a pervert. Why does it turn me on when he does that?_

The Orlesian's eyes widened. He cursed again in his native tongue. "What _are_ you?"

"Speak now, and I will grant you a quick death."

In way of an answer, DuPuis just spat Fenris in the face.

The elf didn't flinch. The gauntleted hand he was holding at the Orlesian's chest phased and DuPuis' eyes widened as the steel claws passed into his breast. The man shuddered and his face went mortally pale but, to his credit, he did not make a sound beyond a soft gag.

Fenris searched for a bit, then clearly found something. DuPuis sweated and squirmed in agony. "This is your aorta," the Tevinter said mildly. "It is the largest artery in the body. As I'm quite sure you know – I believe educated abominations such as yourself take a great interest in anatomy. You have dissected corpses, have you not? Perhaps even living subjects?" The elf's hand moved as he spoke, as if checking for landmarks within the maleficar's chest cavity. "Hmm. You should really get more exercise. Do you know what happens when I exert pressure... here? Your heart explodes inside your chest. Not a very spectacular way to die, to the observer, but painful."

DuPuis finally screamed. Varric shook his head.

"Elf, you're enjoying this far too much for my liking."

"Oh Maker. I'm too old for this shit," Aveline said and looked away.

* * *

><p>It took a few minutes before Fenris turned to Hawke and shrugged. His lyrium glow disappeared, leaving behind a faint shimmer in his markings. "I have seen this before. He's lying, but he'll rather die than tell us the truth. Should I kill him, now?"<p>

Aveline stepped forward. "No! This has gone too far already, Hawke!"

The Fereldan looked from Fenris to the guard captain, then to the Orlesian who was wheezing pitifully against the wall, dark stains of sweat and piss soiling his expensive velvet clothes. Sighing, the mage dropped his hand and allowed the spell to fizzle. The maleficar fell to the floor, limp and coughing.

"Filthy knife-ear," DuPuis groaned weakly. "I'll have you dead for this!"

Fenris was not happy. "Why are we even talking about this?" he asked. "You know as well as I that he has lives on his conscience. And that he will continue taking them."

_Not again._ Hawke's headache lingered. "We have no proof that he's guilty of anything Merrill hasn't done. He keeps his life."

Aveline sighed. "Thank you, Hawke," she said.

Fenris scowled at them. "He's a blood mage! I thought this at least was something we agreed upon. If you don't want to kill him, report him to the authorities!"

"You do it," Aveline said. "And while you're at it, why don't you report Merrill, too?"

Fenris turned away, muttering under his breath in Arcanum.

Varric stroked his beardless chin. "Gotta agree with Broody on this one. I don't sodding like it. Maleficar or not, he's the kind of guy to bear a grudge. And he won't challenge us into an honorable duel to settle it."

"I made my decision." Hawke's words seemed to hold enough finality to prevent anyone from voicing more objections.

"You are a lucky man to walk away with your life today, Orlesian," Aveline said to DuPuis, who was struggling to get up. "Be grateful for it."

"I demand... compensation!" the maleficar gasped.

Varric raised his eyebrows. "By the dirty underwear of my ancestors. Perhaps you should offer to pay his laundry bill, elf."

"I would rather pay for a nice memorial wreath to hang upon his door."

Aveline groaned. "Sometimes you guys make me sick," she and turned to go.

"Guard captain, I demand that these men be arrested!" DuPuis gasped from where he now sat slumped against the wall. "Throw them in the gaol! Execute them! They tortured me, a nobleman! In Orlais, this would be a capital offense!"

Aveline halted and ground her teeth. "A friendly hint, Messere DuPuis. Do not push your luck. If I hear you've spoken of this to anyone, I shall have the templars descend on you faster than you can say 'I'm a sorry fuck who soiled my pants today.'"

She stormed out of the room. Varric whistled. "Bianca my love, did I just feel your trigger quiver? You unfaithful wench!"

After they were gone, the Orlesian closed his eyes and shuddered from what pain was left in his innards. With trembling fingers, he took his handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped it across his pale, sweaty face.

Then he smiled.

* * *

><p>On his short way home through Hightown, the district around him momentarily quiet in its early evening lull, Hawke wondered about the spell he had employed to hold DuPuis. It had been sheer improvisation, a variation of the force barrier he used in battle. After ending the spell, he had felt the exertion a bit, but it was nothing as bad as he might have assumed.<p>

He remembered an early discussion with his father. "You have a gift, my son," Malcolm had said when Garrett – only seven at the time – had shown him that he was able to set things on fire with his sheer will. The boy would later learn that mages usually acquired that skill no earlier than thirteen or fourteen. "One day you will be a very powerful mage. Stronger than me. Perhaps stronger than any mage I've known."

"But you're the strongest mage of all, Father!" Hawke had said with precocious pride, insulted that his all-mighty father would be so humble.

Malcolm had laughed. "Yes, I'm the biggest, strongest, and lest we forget, the most handsome of all mages. Though your mother might disagree whether I'm the wisest. But remember this, my son... All things come with a price. When you hold a man's life in your hands, should you take it?"

"I don't understand, Father."

"One day you will. With great power comes great responsibility. You must not waste this gift. It was given to you for a reason."

"And that reason is..?" Hawke whispered to himself now, voicing the question he had, at the time, been too young to make.

But his father was not there to answer. And even if he had, well – Hawke was no longer seven, and knew better than to assume anyone could answer such questions. With the exception of the Maker, perhaps? But the Maker no longer cared what happened to mortal men. And so Hawke was left alone with his questions, and with the fear that he would never really find his place in this world, or learn why he had been blessed with such power, and yet given so little direction to use it.

* * *

><p>"Garrett!" his mother called from across the hall as he entered in his dirty armor, stinking of sweat, exhausted with lack of sleep, and depressed.<p>

The sounds of lively conversation reached him from the dining room beyond her. Hawke winced. He had completely forgotten about her dinner party tonight.

He was really too tired to explain himself, but halted his step and allowed her to approach. There were two people in the world he would have talked to in such a state of mind, and his mother was one of them.

Leandra had clearly intended to reproach him, but upon seeing him closer, she just took his hands in her own. "Dear, is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, mother," he said and leaned to kiss her on the forehead, careful not to leave smudges or disturb her intricately braided and twisted hair. She smelled of roses and nice pomade.

Leandra raised an eyebrow, knowing him too well to believe a word. "You know, when your father said so, I always knew to start packing. But I shall not insist. Will you join us at the table, dear? After you have washed and changed, of course."

"Forgive me. I would rather not."

She sighed. "Will you at least come down later and let me introduce you to the guests? Just to humor your old mother, hmm? There are some lovely ladies present. I went through such trouble to find women of decent birth who are both witty and... fill their corsets." She winked and was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.

"Old, mother? You're nine and forty," Hawke said. "Perhaps you should use more time thinking of yourself, instead of trying to find me a wife."

She pressed a hand to her bosom. "And who says I haven't?" she said and batted her eyelashes.

"Mother!" Now Hawke smiled in earnest. "You have an admirer? Who is he?"

"Do you really think I would tell you? I know how you are! You would launch a veritable assault on the poor fellow, find out every dirty secret he has, down to the color of his smallclothes. I would not inflict such a fate upon a perfectly honorable gentleman, darling. Not when I've found someone who doesn't mind my notorious reputation and grey hair."

Hawke took a close look at his mother and her thick steel-colored braids. He could not remember a time when there hadn't been at least some grey to her hair. And it seemed that her sons were taking after her, instead of Malcolm who had shown few signs of aging before his untimely death. Hawke had just turned thirty, and the grey threads in his own dark hair and beard were already turning into silver streaks. Carver had it worse; the man was growing a bald patch at the age of twenty-five.

But despite her hair, Leandra remained beautiful, and it should not have come as a surprise to her eldest that she was still able to attract suitors. Eventually Hawke would of course do exactly what she feared and find out every sordid detail about the man. But perhaps that was a matter to be handled some other day.

Hawke squeezed her slight fingers in his large, callused hands. To his surprise, he found himself thinking that she might have been right – perhaps he was in need of some distraction.

"Just give me a moment, mother. I will come down by the time for wine and cheese, and take a look at these price mares you have dragged in for a show."

"Thank you, dear. I _knew_ you wouldn't miss a chance for some Tevinter wine, Orlesian cheese and fine Kirkwall horseflesh." She kissed him on the cheek before she returned to her guests.

Later, that night would stay with Hawke for two reasons.

It was then he met the woman whose hand he would later ask in marriage.

And it was also the last time he saw his mother alive.

* * *

><p>That night, the shadow called him by his name, and had a voice he recognized.<p>

"Wryme," Hawke answered in the dream. "I thought we killed you."

The demon chuckled. "It takes much more than a few arrows or bursts of magic to kill a spirit as ancient as I. You know my name, mageling... You have the power to call upon it, should you so wish. A time will come when you need me. Perhaps sooner than you know. And when it does, mortal... You know what is required."

A jolt of terror shook Hawke awake in the dark. For a long time he was afraid to move or even to breathe, lest the shadow follow him through the Veil to the waking world. And even though dawn was still hours away, he was afraid to sleep again, and did not allow himself to do so before it was finally late enough to rise.


	14. Chapter 14

From the moment he saw the white lilies on his mother's table, he felt a black void open beneath his feet, and drag him down with the gravity of a maleficar's spell.

For the whole afternoon, he'd been running a fool's chase with Varric, Isabela and Fenris. They'd paid for a boat across the strait, to report to Emeric about DuPuis, but the templar had disappeared from his post in the Gallows. From whoever had taken his place they heard that Emeric had received a note from Hawke, upon which he had left. The apostate asked to see the message, and the second he took in the convoluted, unfamiliar handwriting and the invitation to meet him at a back alley, he knew that they would not see Emeric alive again.

When they arrived at the site the note had specified, the templar's body was still warm, but nothing could be done to save him. Hawke sensed the residue of the Fade upon the corpse, and indeed the strange, gaping wounds on the man did not look like ones an ordinary weapon would make.

It was a dead end. No clue remained of who had ordered the templar's death. Not that Hawke couldn't take a guess – but guesses were rarely well received in court.

After another boat trip to report Emeric's fate back to the Gallows, Hawke returned home alone, to the sorry sight of Uncle Gamlen loudly trying to argue with an agitated Bodahn in the main hall. Feeling the first signs of his chronic headache upon him again, Hawke extracted his uncle from the old dwarf and demanded that he explain himself.

It turned out his mother had not arrived to a meeting with Gamlen. To his uncle's credit – considering he had most likely just intended to pressure her into a larger allowance – he was beside himself with worry.

And then, Bodahn told about the lilies.

As soon as Hawke saw them on the table of her room, he knew. He knew that things would never be the same again. But his mind rebelled. When did it not? There must be a way. He just had to act fast enough. He was good at acting fast, wasn't he..?

A mage has a natural affinity for blood. That's how he sensed it – a spot of her on the table. Next to an unfinished shirt, so big that it could only have been intended for him, lay a handkerchief she had used to wipe a tiny cut. Hawke walked to the table, took the handkerchief. He could almost see her, sitting here in warm afternoon light, stitching at the soft cloth, lost in thought, maybe thinking of her mysterious suitor – and then, a sharp pain, and she would have scolded herself, would she not, what if she had bled all over the half finished garment?

Hawke squeezed the piece of cloth in his hand, fought down panic. _Stay calm. Think._

Only a blood mage could track anyone through a single drop of blood.

_Merrill?_

The Alienage was too far away. And would she even be home?

_Wryme._

The darkness yawned. _No!_ Hawke closed his eyes tight. His head pounded and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. There had to be another way. _Think, Garrett... Think!_

_DuPuis._

He was flying down the stairs before he knew it. Gamlen and Bodahn jumped out of his way. "I will find her," Hawke yelled to them, already rushing through the main hall, grabbing his staff from near the door, but eschewing his cloak.

DuPuis' house was only a few blocks from his. And from his investigation, Hawke knew the Orlesian rarely left his house. The shadow of the Keep loomed above him as he ran toward the Chantry, with the bloodied handkerchief in his left hand. His right held his staff, not bothering to strap it to his back. He did not even see the looks he attracted, a mage running unchecked through the most genteel quarters of Kirkwall – but then, most knew who he was, and even though the guards seemed like they might have wanted a word with him, no one approached. Up a flight of stairs, now - three stairs at a time, even in his leather and metal armor, long legs and years of hard work serving him well. And there it was. The door to the Orlesian's house, shaded by trees.

He never noticed a slender, dark figure that moved behind him, near a wall.

Hawke made such short work of the Orlesian's three guards that they never had time to alarm the owner of the house. Leaving the unconscious men on the floor of the front hall, he dashed up the stairs and found DuPuis from his study. The short, ever as opulently dressed maleficar was sitting at his desk, copying something from an ancient looking tome.

At the sound of the door, and of the heavy boots on his polished floor, the Orlesian looked around, drew himself upright from his chair. The thick curtains had been mostly drawn against the harsh sun, and Hawke blinked in the dim light.

"You! What is the meaning of this?" the man sputtered.

"Help me if you want to live."

This time the Orlesian did not try to talk, first. He struck Hawke with an electric bolt that crackled through the air like a hand with too many fingers. But the Fereldan just brushed the lightning aside and countered with an improvisation that dragged the maleficar to him and slammed him to the floor at his feet.

"I don't have time for this," Hawke said, still trying to catch his breath. He held the handkerchief toward DuPuis. "Here, this blood belongs to my mother. She's gone missing. You can track her down."

The Orlesian rolled on his back, tried to scramble away from him. "You're insane! Why would I help you, dog lord? I will be killed, or worse!"

"Choose, then," Hawke said. "You can die now, or later."

"_Putein mal!_ I spit on your threats!" DuPuis raised his hand to cast another spell.

Fire sprung from Hawke's fingers. White and yellow, with dancing red petals, it enveloped half his body, flickered in his eyes. "So you choose to die now?" he said. The flames were even in his voice, crackling and humming like the sound of a distant forest fire.

DuPuis went pale, then looked down, all defiance bled from him. "No."

The ritual was graceless, the most basic form of blood magic. It had nothing sophisticated to it – perhaps this was the kind of magic that had first been performed, after Maker had created men? Raw and primal, it filled the room with a rancid stink that almost forced Hawke to gag.

When it was done, DuPuis looked up from where he knelt at the floor, Leandra's handkerchief in his hands. The veins close to his skin glowed red light, and his eyes were the color of fresh blood. "I know the way," he said, his voice deep with demonic power that was in a strange contrast with his too-young, plain face.

"Tell me where she is!"

"I can't. I can only follow the direction I have."

Hawke dragged the man up by his neck, already walking toward the door when DuPuis was still trying to find purchase with his slippered feet. "Then we go," he said, and snatched a cloak from a hanger, throwing it over the Orlesian, to cover his unearthly glow.

Outside, he almost walked into Fenris, who blocked his way to the sunny street.

Under his overbearing sense of urgency, Hawke felt a detached irritation. The elf lived nearby – had he seen Hawke run through the courtyard? There was no time for this. Or for anything that might disturb his focus, jar him from his downward slope into an alternate reality where Leandra might already be -

"Hawke." Fenris registered whatever transpired on his face, then frowned at the short, hooded, whimpering figure he was dragging along. Strangely, he said nothing about DuPuis' glowing red eyes. Not that he didn't want to, Hawke was sure. "I saw you running here. Whatever it is -"

"I have no time for this," Hawke growled and felt the fire surge again. Small flames flickered from his staff. He was past caring who saw.

The elf's eyes flashed, but he did not move aside. Instead, he stepped closer, and looked up at the apostate. "Snap out of it, Hawke! Whatever it is, you cannot do it alone. Isabela and Varric went to the Hanged Man. We must get them."

Hawke ground his teeth, his hand longing to swing the staff and remove what stood in his way. But he was not yet totally gone; he could hear the sense in the man's words. With some difficulty, he allowed the fire to withdraw.

"All right." He shook DuPuis sharply. "Which way?"

"D-down... Docks... The Docks!" the cowering blood mage gasped from within his cloak.

Fenris nodded. "Not too far, then. The Hanged Man is almost on the way. Let's go."

* * *

><p>The closer they got, the darker the shadow in his aching mind grew, soft like the nauseating maw of a hundred sleepless nights. It followed him to the door of the Foundry, and gained weight when, inside, he recalled that this was where they'd found Ninette's severed remains. The place was just as silent as it had been all those years ago, long abandoned, with rusting metalworks equipment spearing the dusty air around them, and hanging chains that creaked faintly in a draft.<p>

DuPuis directed them to a trapdoor that opened into a labyrinthine underground hideout. The rooms were littered with rotting things of a different sort – corroded cages, shackles, even a torture table. A place that sunlight never reached, it had obviously once served as a den for slavers.

_How did he bring her here? She would never have come willingly. Mother, where are you..?_

Then Hawke noticed a slender, naked woman lying on a table, with long colorless hair that hung down the side. The darkness in him swirled slowly upon itself, and looked at her through his eyes.

But it was not Leandra. It was Alessa, bloodless and mutilated. Hawke hammered down his panic. The ache in his temples was turning into shivers of pain behind his eyes.

_Stay calm, Garrett. Focus. She can still be alive._

By now DuPuis was almost incoherent from his extended spell, barely able to point them at the right direction. Hawke found his mother's gold locket from the ground, glinting bright among dirt in the magical light he had kindled at the end of his staff. The locket had been given to her by Malcolm on the last anniversary of their wedding before his death. Hawke had never found out what it contained, but knew she would never have willingly parted with it.

"Hawke – there is something here," Isabela called to him from where she'd been checking for traps ahead.

He ran past her, but the room below the gallery where they stood was empty – a private chamber, surprisingly lavish, with finely carved Orlesian furniture, and books and papers littering every available space on the tables and chairs.

"Hawke! Look out! There's -" Fenris called, but the mage had already dashed down the stairs, and vaulted over the railing in his haste, dropping softly on a thick carpet down below.

The Veil shredded around him, and erupted with gibbering dark shapes that reached for him through the musty air.

The room was guarded by shades and a rage demon, creatures even the weakest of blood mages could conjure, but in numbers that told whoever lived here was not weak. Yet, for the four of them, it was just another extended battle.

Afterwards, while Fenris fetched DuPuis from where the man was huddling in a corner, muttering and giggling to himself, Varric called Hawke over to the fireplace.

"I think you should see this, Hawke."

Above the lintel, the mage saw an old painting of a woman, scratched and singed, but smiling beautifully from beyond years and years. It was not a bad work of art, and caught perfectly an expression Hawke knew well; an inward smile at a memory she would never reveal.

"Looks like... your mother," Isabela frowned.

"Creepy," said Varric.

The shadow stretched inside Hawke, observed in detached amusement.

_Do you still think you can save him, mortal?_

_No! It is not her._

He turned his back on the unknown woman, and continued. Downward again. Deeper into the dark that was starting to sharpen its claws against the confines of his mind.

* * *

><p>DuPuis was the one to die first. Immediately upon reaching the large, elegantly furbished salon, lit by a hundred candles, he fell to his knees and started babbling nigh incomprehensible Orlesian to a man who sat at a finely set dinner table across the room.<p>

"Quentin! Forgive me!" were the only words Hawke understood. Orlesian was a language he only had a halting knowledge of. Then he heard Bianca twang, and a bolt lodged itself in DuPuis' throat. The red light died from the maleficar's eyes. He gurgled and collapsed into a sorry heap under his dark cape.

"We no longer need him, I take it," Varric said.

Hawke turned to look at the stranger at the other end of the room. _Quentin._ The man took a napkin from the table, patted it against his lips.

"Excuse me, dear. It seems we have uninvited guests," he sighed to his companion – a woman sitting opposite of him at the table, with her back to Hawke and the others. Her hands lay idle upon the table, but moved occasionally here and there, without obvious reason.

Until now, time had been speeding forward with the inevitability and poise of a flying arrow. Now it suddenly ground to a halt.

"Mother..?"

Hawke's voice carried clear across the room. But either she did not hear, or could not act upon it. _If it even is her. _Perhaps DuPuis had tricked them, lured them into coming to his master, hoping the man would dispatch them and save his sorry hide. The thought made Hawke's stomach turn.

_No. It _is_ her._

Quentin stood up. He was dressed in a set of finely tailored dark clothes – a nobleman's suit that would not have been out of place at a genteel dinner party.

"Hawke... I smell blood magic. He's a maleficar," Fenris warned, his voice low and urgent. "A strong one."

Hawke knew he should have concentrated on Quentin. Instead, he couldn't stop staring at the woman. She was wearing a white gown, cut in a style that had been in fashion two decades ago. Strands of her steel-gray hair escaped from beneath a stained silver tiara and a lace-trimmed veil, yellowed by time.

_Why does she just sit there? Did he drug her?_ Hawke could not sense mind magic on her. In fact, when he reached to her with his mage's instinct, he sensed... nothing. A cold nausea twisted his guts.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Shit. I have a bad feeling about this," Isabela said from behind him.

Quentin had rounded the table and was now standing next to the woman. "I was wondering when you'd show up," he said, looking at her, but clearly addressing Hawke. His common was perfect and did not reveal any sign of his Orlesian origin. He was a handsome enough man, pleasantly spoken and with a face that would have incited trust in other circumstances; it was not hard to see how he might have attracted a lonely widow.

"Leandra was so sure you'd come for her," he continued.

A sharp splinter of pain within Hawke's skull threatened to split it. He swung his staff and drove it to the ground. It painted sparks and shreds of flame through the air, which was dank and fetid despite Quentin's attempts to alleviate the problem with bouquets of expensive herbs. "Spare me the demented rambling. Let my mother go!"

"Your mother?" Quentin frowned. "But, dear boy... Your mother no longer exists. She has become part of something greater. Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is?" The maleficar smiled down at the woman. "Love. I pieced her together from memory. I found her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers... And at last, her face..."

He brushed his fingers across her cheek, and took her hand from the table.

"Come, my darling. Let us meet our guests."

Something dark fluttered at the edge of Hawke's vision. He blinked to remove the stain, but it was not in his eyes – it was in his mind.

The fire in him roiled like a living being. If not spent soon, it would find its own way out.

Uncertain, as if not knowing her own limbs, the woman in white started to rise. And by now Hawke was almost wishing she'd remained still – a childish notion that what he did not see, was not true. Why would she have moved so slowly, like an ailing woman, she who had always been possessed of a lovely grace, and carried herself with pride that was her birthright?

"I've searched for her far and wide, and no force on this earth will part us," Quentin said. The words were a warning, a promise of death that spun from his hands as he started to tear upon the Veil around them.

She turned, shambling like a sleepwalker, and looked at her son with dead eyes.

* * *

><p>Later he would not recall much of the fight that ensued. Shades, undead, demons of rage and desire, and the necromancer himself – things they had fought before, and defeated. The battle was not easy, but in the end, it was enough to know that they had won, and that Quentin lay dead at Hawke's feet, as he should have done a long time ago. <em>If only I had not given up once. I would have found him...<em>

_But you did. You gave up._

_You failed._

He found her near the singed dinner table, writhing on a carpet that was black with Quentin's blood and demonic mucus. Her white gown was stained with it, but none of the blood was her own. He had been afraid of harming her when he unleashed his fire on Quentin and the summoned minions. It was the only thing that had kept him from just conflagrating the accursed place to cinder. But perhaps she could no longer be harmed. As soon as he touched her, he knew that what blood still flowed in her veins was not that of a living being.

He knelt and gently picked her up from the floor. As he did, the tiara and the veil fell from her hair. She was so cold, and so wrong, with a body that was larger than it should, and arms that were longer, put together with stitches that Quentin had not been able to hide. But despite the undead, pearly eyes she was still able to see, and as she looked at him, all her affection for him surfaced on that beloved face, and he knew she was not gone. Not completely. She was still her, there, under the papery skin, beneath blotched, decaying flesh.

Out of instinct he tried to heal her, but the life-giving magic fell from her, rejected by gangrenous tissue. With Quentin no longer there to maintain it, the spell that animated her was unraveling, slipping from her like breath slips from a drowning man. Soon she would be gone.

_Think, Garrett. Think! There is something you can do._

"I knew you would come," she said, and it was her voice, hers and not Alessa's, or Ninette's, or any other of the women Quentin had killed for his patchwork bride.

"You know me. I always save the day."

She smiled. She always smiled at his jokes, however ill timed or bad, saying they reminded her of Malcolm.

_No natural magic can heal her... But not all magic is natural._

"Ssh. Don't fret, darling. That man would have kept me trapped in here. But now... I'm free. I get to see Bethany again... and your father. But you'll be here alone."

"I should have watched you more closely. I should have -"

Her eyes closed. She was growing colder as they spoke. Frantically he shook her to wake her up again, tried to think of something, anything that would make warmth and life return to her.

And the darkness laughed at his pitiful attempts to understand, to see a way out of this nightmare. _Do you really think there is anything you can do alone, Hawke..?_

A white flash of pain struck him, stronger than any before. He groaned and clenched his eyes against it... and, beneath his closed eyelids, finally looked into the shadow behind the pain.

It was immense. He gaped, marveling in awe at its size and age, greater than anything he had ever met. This was no petty demon of rage or desire. This was a lord of the Beyond, a companion worthy of an ancient Archon of the Imperium.

_You can keep her, then?_

_Yes, mortal. I have that power._

Hawke opened his eyes, pulled a dagger from his belt. Holding her close, he tore with his teeth at the thick leather that covered his left hand. With the glove gone, his fingers curled into a fist. A slice of a wrist, there, above the sleeve of his jerkin, with veins so close to the skin... Throbbing with a life that he, without a thought, would have given to save her.

Perhaps he still could, in a way.

The demon stretched its great frame and waited beyond the Veil. Recently broken by Quentin, it was so thinly spread across the waking that a mere breath of a maleficar would have been enough to tear it open again.

"Wryme," he whispered.

_Yes, sweet mortal._

He pressed the blade to his wrist. A single drop of blood welled, kissed the sharpened silvery steel. Immediately a tiny tear appeared in the Veil.

The shadow leered, with sharp teeth that gleamed in the dark.

She trembled in his arms. He looked down, and saw that her eyes were open again. She smiled at him.

And he was a small boy, now, with scraped knees, running home as she waited for him at the door, with all that was bright and good and strong in her face. A red rose had been threaded in her dark hair, and from inside he heard the voices of the twins arguing over a toy, and smelled freshly baked bread and stew cooking in a pot over the fire. _Where have you been, Garrett? Oh Maker, how dirty you are! _She laughed as she caught his hand in hers. _Let's go for a wash. Your Father is back from Denerim. You should see all the fine things he brought!_

"My little boy has become so strong," she said, her voice already failing. "I love you. You've always made me so proud."

A tear rolled down his nose and fell on her mottled cheek. He opened his fingers, allowed the dagger to slip from them. A small lick of magic was enough to heal the shallow cut on his wrist. The tiny rift in the Veil closed, sealing behind all hope of ever hearing his mother's voice again. And he gathered her against him, and wept into her steel-gray hair that still smelled of roses and sweet pomade, and of a world that, from this day, would only exist to him in a memory.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I admit, I toyed with the idea of letting Hawke become a blood mage. Ever since I started writing this, he has seemed hell bent on screwing everything up eventually. But try as I might, I could not figure out a way to make it work._

_It's not going to be all angst and gloom, dear readers. At least I wish I can beat some sense into these guys, eventually. Thank you for the continued support and comments._

_Maybe one of these days I'll write a little AU (well, even more AU) fic where Hawke accepts Wryme's temptation, becomes evil!Hawke and enslaves Fenris with demonic mind magic. :-P_


	15. Chapter 15

_With the merciless Seheron sun and the qunari attackers beating down on them, they finally reached the harbor, having battled their way through dust-laden streets from the keep._

_Seeing a weak spot in the thinned line of defenders, a Karashok charged and his immense war hammer tore the head from one of the men's shoulders, before Fenris was there to block the creature's way. The qunari roared and swung his bloodied weapon again. Fenris ducked nimbly beneath its droning path, shimmering in his ghostly blue glow, and carved the qunari open from hip to shoulder._

_The other attackers fell back to regroup. Fenris waited, short of breath and muscles screaming with fatigue. _We are almost there, _he thought._ They must not see how tired I am.

_He risked a quick glance down the beach. Danarius, Hadriana and the two warriors with them had cleared most of the space between them and the pier. But the distance between them and the rear guard was increasing._

_"Fall back!" Fenris yelled, his deep voice carrying clear across the battle field. "To the pier!"_

"Basra Vashedan!"

_Fenris whirled back toward the enemy, sword raised._

_A huge qunari warrior, a veritable tower of muscle and horns, was walking toward him from among his men. The intricate red war paintings on his grey skin and the spaulders he wore marked him a Sten, a commander of a unit of warriors._

"Parshaara."_ The Qunari spun his huge ax around him and leveled it toward Fenris. _

"Saarhoshir mahaar ebra kadan."

_'Demon elf, killer of my brothers.'_

"Asit tal-eb,"_ Fenris answered. 'It is as it is supposed to be.'_

_His words were a deliberate slur on the Qun, intended to anger the Sten — quoting the qunari's sacred principle in his face. But it would have been easier to evoke emotions in a mountain. The Sten just sized him up, unimpressed, before he roared and attacked._

_Fenris met the Sten's ax with his sword. Even half deflected, the impact almost wrenched his arms from their sockets._

_He sidestepped and twisted his blade. The maneuver would have sent a human enemy's weapon spinning through air. But the Sten was stronger than any human. Trying to force the ax from his hands, even with the inhuman strength lyrium bestowed, felt like trying to twist a tree from the ground. By sheer instinct Fenris tried another trick; he grasped the blade of his weapon and spun its hilt into the qunari's face. Expecting the great warrior to be dazed for a second at least, he lifted his foot for a kick, only to be swept back by a upward thrust of the ax against his sword. He leaned into the fall, making it into a fluid backward somersault, then held his sword in defense again as he rose smoothly from the sandy ground._

_The Sten spat blood from his mouth._

"Saarebas atlashok mas!"

_'The unworthy tool of a dangerous thing.' Fenris knew that, in the eyes of the qunari, he was the lowest of the low — a slave to a mage, who by nature was a danger to the Qun. For the qunari, a society governed by mages was unthinkable, and a mage's pet was an abomination, not even worthy of becoming Viddathari. From the Sten's perspective, the only thing Fenris was good for was _qamek, _mindless toil._

_Behind them on the pier, a great flash of light and crackle of energy told that Danarius and Hadriana were expending what must be the last of their strength in order to reach the boat to safety with their handful of defenders._

_But before Fenris and his men could join them, the horned giants were attacking again._

_To his horror, Fenris realized that the magister's men were even more exhausted than he'd thought. Three of them fell almost immediately. Only one qunari was struck down. A few enemies extracted themselves from the others and ran toward Danarius. No longer aware of anything but the overbearing need to protect his master, Fenris fended off a blow of the Sten's ax and turned to race down after the three qunari who were swiftly gaining on the four humans struggling to get to the boat._

_More enemies were running down from the streets, toward the slope of the beach, throwing spears that thudded to the ground nearby. The fight was hopeless. Anyone left behind would be butchered, like was happening to the defenders behind him now. But they could still escape... some of them, at least._

_His markings flashed and fed their power into him, hastening his step. He reached the pier. And with a deep roar he swung his sword and cut down two of Danarius' pursuers._

_Ahead of him, a soldier jumped into the boat, rocking it dangerously from side to side, and turned to help the magister down after him._

_The remaining Karashok spun toward the elf. Fenris struck and the blade of his weapon sliced through the qunari's left arm and lodged itself deep in his massive trunk._

_The warrior took a look at the sword in his gut. Blood squirted from the stump of his arm._

"Anaan esam Qun,"_ he said._

_Impossibly, the Karashok lifted his remaining hand, and brought his heavy mace down toward Fenris, whose sword was firmly stuck in his insides._

_The sprint down the pier had depleted what was left of the elf's reserves. He dodged, but too slow — the mace struck a glancing blow against his left arm, which broke with an audible snap. Then the qunari staggered against him, and even in his death throes, embraced his lyrium shrouded body tight to prevent him from running to the boat. And then they were falling, the Karashok's enormous weight crashing him to the stony pier._

_Despite the adrenaline, pain shot through him like flames through dry grass. His markings dulled and their protective glow disappeared. He dug his heels between the slabs of stone and pushed at the now dead Karashok with his usable hand, but had not enough strength left to get rid of the man's immense weight. Desperately he clawed at the qunari's belt, seeking for a grip. His fingers brushed against a sheath, and found the hilt of a finely carved knife._

_Then the Sten was there. Growing still, Fenris looked him straight in the eye, and saw in them his own death, cold like the heart of the Qun._

_The warrior lifted his ax for a killing blow._

_Fenris pulled the knife from the Karashok's belt and threw it. The small blade sank in the Sten's left eye. Without as much as a surprised expression, the great qunari dropped his weapon, then staggered over Fenris and the dead Karashok._

_The elf twisted over his sound arm. His bare feet kicked against the pier and the claws of his gauntlets screeched like a living being on the stone as he tried to pull himself away. But the Sten was already falling, heavy and inevitable as fate itself._

_The last thing Fenris saw was the boat, rowed by two soldiers through sun kissed waves. Danarius was standing in the stern, with his sparkling staff in hand and dark robes fluttering around his tall, thin frame. Hadriana's long hair whipped in the wind, she was already looking out at sea, toward the ship that would take them back to Minrathous, to safety and everything Fenris knew._

"_Master," Fenris cried in a broken voice, but it was too weak to carry over the water._

_Then the world went away, and he no longer felt pain or despair._

o o o

"Priestess takes the trick," Varric said. "Broody wins with thousand and one points."

Black eyebrows rose at the words. "I... won?"

"Yep. Three silvers and eleven coppers. Don't spend it all at one sitting, elf."

Fenris stared at the painted square of thick paper in front of him, and kept staring at it like at the greatest wonder on earth, until the dwarf removed it from under his eyes.

Isabela leaned back and laced her fingers at the back of her head. "So, miracles happen, huh? Perhaps next time we go to the Docks, the bloody oxmen are no longer there."

Fenris eyed his gambling partners with suspicion. "Something prevented the normal routine of cheating, I assume?"

Both of his companions burst into mock-serious objections. "Cheat? Me? Ooh, such accusations!" — "Elf. Look at this face. It's the face of honesty!"

"Forget I said anything."

Varric tapped the deck of cards against the table and laid it neatly next to the small pot of coins. "Well! I don't know about you two, but I'm _parched_. Shall I bring you two something?"

After getting their answers, the dwarf pattered off, whistling. Fenris took his gauntlets from where he'd dropped them on the table.

Isabela drank from her mug of whiskey and observed the elf's narrow, tattooed fingers disappear under intricately jointed pieces of dark steel. "So, do you _always_ wear those things?" she asked.

Fenris paused. "A strange question, considering I just spent quite a while not wearing them."

"Well, when you're not in danger of nicking cards and destroying a perfectly good game of Wicked Grace, of course."

Fenris looked at her, then at his gauntlets. He had never given it much thought, but after wearing his armor for years — often even when he slept — he felt somewhat naked without all of it on. "Yes?" he ventured, fearing what moved behind those golden brown eyes of hers.

She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. "Really? Even when you're... polishing that big sword of yours? Or... sweeping the old chimney?"

With a blush creeping onto his cheeks, Fenris tightened the buckles of his gauntlets, and decided to give voice to what had been puzzling him for months.

"Woman, why do you insist on making sexual advances at me? You know any sort of intimacy between the two of us is an impossibility."

Her eyes twinkled. "So touchy! I was just asking if you wear your gauntlets when you clean your sword. Oh, and wouldn't life be terribly boring if we just concentrated on what's possible? Not that you've proved that _impossible_ isn't something of an overstatement, considering your trysts with Hawke. Assuming we two were speaking of the same thing, of course. Which I never said."

Taking a last sip from the pewter mug, she smiled suggestively, her eyes on him warm like a touch. And like so often happened with her, Fenris could not think of a single thing to say.

It wasn't that he found her unattractive. He almost wished he did. It would have made things much easier. But despite what she thought — he hesitated to think 'hoped', for he already knew she was rarely serious — sex between them _was_ impossible. The only reason he hesitated to come clean with her was knowing that, after telling her, everyone would know.

He coughed. "Since you mentioned Hawke. Still no sign of him?"

"Bore." She sat up and poured the last drop of whiskey into her mug. "Nope, no sign of our fearless employer. They haven't heard of him at the Rose, either. I even tried to visit him yesterday. Imagine me, walking through that quarter of the Estates in broad daylight. Should have spared myself the embarrassment. That damned pint-sized butler of his didn't even let me in. Said Hawke's in mourning and doesn't take visitors."

"Hm." Fenris lifted his tankard to quaff what remained of his stale beer.

"Why don't _you_ go?"

The elf proceeded to inhale beer into his windpipe. "Me?" he wheezed after coughing for a minute.

"Don't glare at me! It's not a bad idea. I'm willing to bet my pants he'll let _you_ in."

"Isabela, you don't own a single pair of pants."

"Oh, technicalities." The Rivaini leaned toward him. "Look. We're hardly more than gambling buddies, but... won't you do it, elf? If I ask very nicely? It's been eight days since the funeral, and no one has seen him anywhere. I'm starting to... well... worry." She fidgeted, then threw her back against the chair. "And I don't bloody well like worrying over anyone! Bugger the man, isn't he supposed to be good at taking care of himself..?"

Fenris regarded her suspiciously. What a strange woman the Rivaini was. Selfish and fiercely independent, like Fenris himself, she had very little respect for propriety or authority — which probably explained some of his unexpected partiality to her. But unlike the elf, who rarely bothered to hide what he thought of anyone, she was usually only honest about her feelings toward people when they were not around. It almost seemed as if she was ashamed of any kind of attachment, even toward her friends.

"I'm not sure you know what you ask of me," he said, his voice low.

Her eyes gained a sharp expression. "Oh? You think? Well, what if I do?"

Fenris shifted on the bench, uneasy. Why did he allow her to ask these questions? And for the love of Andraste, why did he try to answer? "He's not..." He struggled for words. "It's complicated. He does not understand."

"And you do?" The golden eyes narrowed. "Bollocks. You think you hide it well, elf, but you don't fool me. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the delicious interspecies awkwardness thing, but... love, the tension is getting a bit old. All right, maybe you don't want to get hitched and have his babies, I can understand that. But whatever happened between you two... it clearly isn't over. So get to it. Fuck him. Or have a good fist fight with him. Get him out of your system. Do _something_."

Fenris felt the tips of his ears grow red. "That is — There is nothing to... get out of, Isabela."

The rogue snorted. "For someone so painfully honest, you certainly spend a lot of time lying to yourself. Look, sweetling, I understand it's not exactly simple for you two. But it's normal to want sex. Don't deprive yourself just because you lust after someone you wouldn't take for a dinner at your mom's."

_I don't lust for him... not exactly,_ Fenris almost said, then thought better of it. _Where's the damn dwarf?_

"If he turns you away, why would he act different toward me?" he said, finally. "You're his friend. I am not."

The golden brown eyes became rueful. "Which is the very reason I know he'll see you."

"That makes no sense," Fenris said, and finally saw Varric plodding in with two tankards of ale and one bottle of rum. He was so relieved that for a second, he did not even mind the morose looking Anders who tagged at the dwarf's heels. Out of some twisted sense of discretion, Isabela did not continue the discussion. But when, later, the elf collected his winnings and rose from the table, the rogue gave him a sharp look, pointed a finger at him and shaped her mouth around Hawke's name. Fenris suppressed an urge to roll his eyes, and made a tiny gesture that might or might not have been a nod. Isabela gave him a mock salute and turned back to the others.

"What was _that_ all about?" Fenris heard Anders ask when he was out of the door. Humans always underestimated the range of his hearing.

"Oh, just a friendly reminder," she chuckled. "Fenris needs someone to sweep his chimney every once in a while."

"What... No. I don't want to know," the healer said, and then the elf was mercifully too far to hear the rest of their conversation.

o o o

Unlike Isabela thought, he did not lie to himself. At least, not much. Or so he hoped.

There was little to lie about. He knew exactly what bothered him. And it was not some kind of unrequited longing for Hawke. No, it was something much more simple and embarrassing; an addiction. Something his markings craved, after getting it once or twice. And since he'd never had much of an imagination, his base urges knew only two targets to latch on.

Or so he told himself.

He'd thought time would heal him of Hawke, like it had healed him of Hadriana. But months passed, and the dreams kept on coming.

And tonight was no exception.

o o o

_The mage walked toward him. What Fenris saw on his face made him retreat until he felt a wall against his back._

_Hawke stared down at him, disgusted, and tilted his head up with his hand. Fenris froze. Then a deep tremble shook him as the lyrium reacted to the touch._

Worthless maggot, I told you to not look at me_, Hawke said, and without as much as a change of expression backhanded him across the face. He gasped and shuddered against the cold stone. The hand moved left and right and left again, splitting his lip and bursting blood out of his nose. The tang of iron invaded his mouth like a kiss. And all the while pleasure roiled through him, down where he had already stirred at the familiar cold look in the man's eye, and now pressed hard against his clothes. Steel claws sought in vain for support from the stone wall as he made wordless sounds, barely able to stay on his feet._

_Hawke took an annoyed look at him. The last blow finally made him crash down to his hands and knees, blood trickling freely from his nose._

_A kick of Hawke's boot sent him on his back to the floor._

_He knew well what would follow. It had been one of Hadriana's favorite tricks. Hawke kicked his legs apart and stepped between them, and placed a foot on his groin. Slowly the man started to place weight on it. He writhed under the pressure, dizzy and groaning, and the human above him swam out of focus as the unnatural pleasure swiftly started to peak._

Pathetic_, the mage said and ground his foot against his erection._

Flinching, he woke up, face down on his disheveled bed, sweating and hard. It was dawn, and quiet, and his markings shimmered with arousal.

Grumbling wordlessly against the bolster, he allowed his hand to slowly drag itself against the bed and find its way into his breeches. He already knew from experience it would be less bothersome to just get it over with than try and fight the memory of his dream.

For such a sordid necessity it was at least thankfully short, with only a dozen strokes required to bring him over the edge. Despite the pressing need, his orgasm was barely more than a pitiful stutter. Was this how it always felt to other people, ones not coated all over in lyrium and cursed with a ridiculous susceptibility to those with an affinity to it? If so, why did they even bother?

Aching with unsatisfied longing, he rolled on his back, and watched the first tendrils of morning sun sneak in between the curtains.

_It's normal to want sex,_ the Rivaini had said.

If only she knew.

'Normal.' The word baffled him at best of times. What was normal? He had a very vague idea how 'normal' people lived. He supposed his unexpected stay in Kirkwall was as close as he'd ever get to 'normal'. He had a place to stay, coin to support his modest style of life. It was not always easy, lacking a master or at least necessity to dictate his life, but he could not deny it was nice to be able to decide when to get up or go to a tavern, and being allowed to gamble and to get drunk should he so wish. Sometimes he took jobs from the Mercenary Guild, to avoid boredom, and not to rely completely on Hawke and his companions for things to do. After Hadriana's death, the bounty hunters had come less often, and he had spent less time being on his guard and more just... being.

And with idleness came the time to long for things beyond mere survival.

After his escape, Fenris had spent years and years hardly ever thinking of sex. There were maybe a handful of times he'd touched himself, and those he'd found a quick, filthy affair that left him annoyed at having to go and clean up.

Why, now, would he then long for sex?

'Rape', he'd called it, well aware of the horror he'd evoke in the proud Fereldan. He had not used the word lightly or just to get revenge. Hawke _had_ forced him to it, and at the time, he'd wanted nothing more than to prevent it from ever happening again.

But Hadriana had forced herself upon him, as well. And he had longed for the witch, even so.

Now he had to face up to the fact that no one forced him to dream about Hawke hitting him across the face until he came.

_Normal?_ He would never be normal. He did not know much, but he knew that normal people did not get a hard-on when they thought of being slapped around by mages.

It was a testament to his strict training that the others never caught on the true reason for his restless irritation when he was left alone with Hawke. Well, with the exception of Isabela, obviously.

If only he could have excised certain memories from his head, with the precision the lyrium had burned away his unknown past. But, in contrast to his lost youth, his memory of anything after the ritual was crystal clear. Whatever uncertainty remained in his life, it was one of interpretation, not that of fact. And with cheerless conviction, he knew that no one would resolve that uncertainty on his behalf. It fell to himself to do it. A task that he did not look forward to, or even feel certain of being able to complete.

But perhaps there was another way to look at it? Despite all the foolish and ill-advised things Hawke had done, he had also helped Fenris to take out Hadriana, and even saved his life on occasion. Fenris was nothing if not pragmatic in his relationships, but he recognized a debt of honor. If there was something he could do to help Hawke, he owed it to the man to do it.

And, perhaps, he also owed it to himself.


	16. Chapter 16

What good could eventually come out of doing as Isabela asked, Fenris did not know. But all the same, the next day, he found himself from Hawke's door, using the fancy brass knocker that was so obviously of Lady Leandra's design.

Walking through Hightown in broad daylight was something Fenris tried to avoid. The guards had never tried to physically stop him from traveling through the Estates, but their hostile, challenging stares triggered all his defensive instincts — or, an urge to go and chop off some heads. In the winter, he'd been partially able to hide beneath his long hooded cloak, but now — with the summer sun turning the city into a sweltering oven — even that was impossible. He wore a light Tevinter style wrap around his head and shoulders to avoid a sunstroke, but it did not do much to conceal his distinctive armor, or his two-handed sword... or the tattoos.

Sometimes he could not help but turn to glare at the gawkers, either scaring the blight out of them, or if they were made of harder stuff than that, staring them down. It was immature and gave him satisfaction for about three seconds before feeling foolish. He knew it was a sign of self-control issues that he couldn't stop doing it.

Standing at the Hawke Estate door, he half expected it never to be answered. However, to his surprise it took barely fifteen seconds before the heavy door opened. And was he completely out of his mind, or did Bodahn actually look... pleased to see him?

"Serah!" The elderly dwarf stepped aside. "Please, come in!"

_Damn you, Isabela. Do you always have to be right?_

Fenris had seen Bodahn only once before, several months earlier, when he'd visited Hawke after returning from his journeys. Had they met on the street, he would never have been able to single the man out from Kirkwall's other surfacer dwarfs. Bodahn, however, seemed to have no trouble remembering him. Not that the opposite wouldn't have surprised him more.

"May I have your cloak and weapon, serah?" Bodahn asked once he was inside the foyer, which seemed very dim after bright sunlight. "Master Hawke is downstairs."

_Well, at least he's alive, then._

After unwrapping the length of linen he'd wound around his head and shoulders and unbuckling his sword belt, and waiting for the old dwarf to stow his possessions away, Fenris followed him through the foyer and the main hall to a side door that took them into a descending stone stairway.

The old Amell estate was a complicated affair, built during the Orlesian occupation on top of a much older Tevinter basement, which consisted of several linked rooms and a maze of a corridor all the way to Darktown. It had been the target of improvements and repairs ever since, but as impressive it was above ground, the most curious part of the house was beneath street level.

It was cool down in the basement, the stone almost cold beneath his bare feet. It was also so dark that using candles to light their way was necessary. Soon the elf's keen ears started to pick up faint echoes of a heated discussion from ahead. Upon reaching a small anteroom with racks full of wine bottles – just when the voices were close enough to recognize – Bodahn coughed awkwardly and turned to look at him, lifting his candle holder for light.

"Serah... it is highly irregular of me to speak of such things, but – Master Hawke is not himself. We fear he shall do something he later regrets. We are all heartbroken over Lady Leandra's passing, but none so much as he."

Aghast, Fenris heard the old dwarf's voice tremble, and saw his eyes glisten in the light of the candle. Was Bodahn about to cry? Fenris did not fear many things, but weeping people always made him want to turn tail and run.

"My condolences." From his meager experience, it seemed to be the thing to say.

"Oh! Poor, poor Lady Leandra." Bodahn pulled a handkerchief from the breast of his leather jerkin and patted it against his eyes. "Poor Master Hawke. Will you not talk to him, serah? Make him see reason?"

"Um... I shall see what I can do." It was a half-hearted promise, to say the least. But to his surprise, Bodahn seemed slightly happier, and after nodding gratefully, the dwarf left.

Fenris remained for a while where he stood, feeling eminently foolish with the flickering candle in his hand, voices reaching his keen ears from behind the simple wooden door that stood ajar at the other end of the room.

The elf had already recognized the speakers beyond as Hawke and his brother Carver. He knew that the younger Hawke had joined the Order and become a templar. For someone whose family had mostly consisted of apostates, this seemed like a peculiar choice.

It did not come as a surprise that the Hawke brothers were arguing. Their relationship had already been a strained one three years ago.

Never one to be burdened by useless discretion, Fenris moved closer to listen.

"— let me remind you that it was your choice to leave us and join Meredith's private little army, and deprive yourself of the possibility," Hawke said, his voice cold.

_Hm. He never uses that voice when he's arguing with me, _Fenris thought. In his numerous confrontations with Hawke, the mage tended to sound like he was just about to explode like a too tightly lidded kettle. Or maybe hail down some fire and brimstone. Never particularly... frosty.

"Oh, so that's it?" Carver answered, clearly on the brink of losing his temper. "Because of wanting something of my own, I'm not even part of this family any more? Or, what used to be a family."

"It wasn't a choice. You just ran to the farthest place you could think of. And since you grew up with us, that happened to be the Order."

Carver laughed without mirth. "Oh, all right. I stand corrected, then. Let me bow before your splitting insight, brother. Be that as it may, you're _not_ the sole heir. Half of this house belongs to _me_. You're not going to squander it on some —"

"You'd hand it to the Order, then? Aren't templars forbidden to own anything but their armor and sword?"

By now, the younger Hawke was yelling. "That's beside the point!"

Fenris heard Hawke groan. "I'll find out a way to pay you, all right? Just... don't force me to divide the estate. It's all that's left of her!"

"You should have thought of that before you let her die!"

There was a long silence.

"What?" Hawke asked, then, as incredulous as one could expect.

"You heard me, brother." Carver's words dripped acid. "Had you been the least bit interested in her affairs, and not... fucking whores in the Rose all night long and touring the countryside with your freak show, mother would still be alive!"

When Hawke spoke again, his voice had grown an even icier crust. "A moment ago you suggested I should be locked in the Gallows. And now you're saying it's my fault she died, since I wasn't always there to look after her? I assume you see no conflict between these two statements?"

"Maker damn it, Garrett, stop twisting my words! You heard what I said. Do you think she'd have attracted that monster's attention if it weren't for you? Bloody Void, everyone knows what you are! You're not even trying to hide it! Is it any surprise some maniac would get interested in our family?"

"So you're really saying I was the reason she..."

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm saying, big brother!"

And with that, Hawke finally snapped. "Get out, Carver," he said. Fenris could hear it was as much a warning as a threat. He was also struck by the suspicion that Bodahn had brought him here in the hopes that he would prevent the Hawke brothers from killing each other.

"Fuck you! You can't throw me out of my own home!" Carver yelled.

A loud crackle could be heard, and a sound like meat being placed on a very hot griddle.

"Get. Out." _This_ was a voice Fenris knew, usually followed by a large explosion of some sort. _"Now."_

Apparently, Carver still had a shred of self-preservation instinct left — or so the elf guessed from the clatter of steel boots on the stone floor, and from the approaching clank of armor. Without a sound, he snuffed out the candle between his thumb and forefinger, and retreated behind a wine rack, blending into the shadows just as the door was kicked open and Carver stormed through the anteroom in his heavy templar plate, face dark with rage and sorrow.

Even after the man was gone, Fenris felt loath to leave his hiding place.

_He needs a chantry sister, or a lawyer. What the blight can I do?_

He considered leaving. Or breaking open a wine bottle and emptying it while he sat in this dark corner. Then, cursing Isabela into the farthest corner of the Fade, he just walked to the door and opened it.

The room beyond, beneath a small landing and an open flight of stairs, was larger than he'd expected. It was ancient, its Tevinter builders evident in the lay of the stone, in the deep horizontal slit of window that opened to the street level at the top of the opposite wall. Perhaps the place had once been used for storing slaves. Now it served as some sort of a training room. Target dummies and what seemed like half-filled sacks littered one end, a few spare wooden furnishings the other. The space was dimly lit by light siphoning through the windows. It also had several torches placed at intervals on the walls, currently extinguished — and Fenris knew there was another explanation for the odor of smoke and ashes. The walls were largely covered in soot, the targets pitch black, and large barrels of water stood along the walls, buckets on ready nearby.

From the top of the stairs, Fenris saw Hawke sitting on a long wooden bench across the room. The mage's elbows rested on his knees, his forehead on his hands. Deliberately the elf allowed the door to close with an audible sound.

"Go away," Hawke called, his voice tired. "I'm not going to kill you, but I don't want to argue with you, either."

"Well, that is out of the ordinary," Fenris said.

The apostate's tall frame unfolded with surprising grace for such a big man. In a second he was on his feet and watching his unexpected visitor with an incredulous expression.

"Fenris! I – What are you doing here?"

Abandoning his useless candle on the floor, the elf found his way down the stairs and then stood in the middle of the charred room, hands on his hips, soft ash and sharp grit on the cold stone beneath his feet.

It felt difficult to look directly at Hawke, but from what he saw, the man was... filthy. What on Thedas had he been up to? There was soot on his clothes and hands and dark smears on his face. He was wearing a pair of black suede breeches, tucked into tall boots, and a light grey shirt, stained with black smudges and mostly unbuttoned.

Maybe it was best to stick to the facts. "Isabela asked me to check on you."

Hawke ran his fingers through his hair. His gaze wandered. The aversion to direct eye contact seemed mutual. "Isabela, huh? Well. You can tell her I'm fine."

Fenris lifted an eyebrow. "So you want me to lie, Hawke? That is not something I'm good at."

A short silence. Then the mage chuckled, a weary, uncharacteristic sound, not at all like his usual smug laughter. "No, that would be rude of me, wouldn't it. Tell her what you will."

Fenris frowned. Hawke certainly wasn't _fine_. The man he knew would have risen like a piece of fireworks at that bait. But now... there were shadows under his eyes, a pale undertone to his normally tan skin. And he seemed older. The emerging silver in his messy hair was more visible than ever, sorrow and guilt so clearly etched on his features that it felt like an intrusion of privacy to even look at it.

But despite the disheveled looks, the mage was still handsome. For some incomprehensible reason, perhaps even more so – the dirt on his skin and the careless attire somehow served to exaggerate his already overpowering masculinity. As always, Fenris tried to detach himself from the involuntary aching of his markings. It was not him, yearning for Hawke. It was the lyrium, reacting to the man's presence, and to the memories and dreams his subconscious was not able to differentiate.

"So, was that all you came to do?" Hawke asked. "Check on me for her?"

Was that his cue to get the hell out? He took a step back. Suddenly Hawke shot him a strange look and raised his hand.

"No. Don't go."

He stopped, bewildered. Hawke, too, seemed almost startled by his own gesture. As if to justify his raised hand, the mage rubbed it across his eyes, only to get soot in them. "Maker! I can't believe I did that again." He cursed and went to wash his face in a barrel of water.

Fenris stood his ground and waited while Hawke splashed water on his eyes. After a few seconds he realized he was standing in attention – an old habit that now only returned when he was... not himself. He forced his weight to one leg, crossed his arms instead of holding them behind his back. _You're a free man. Stand like one, not like a damned slave._ But he still felt tense.

Hawke pushed himself away from the barrel and wiped his face in his sleeve.

"Something you wanted then, Hawke?" Fenris asked, realizing immediately that it sounded odd and hostile. _Curse it. Always the smooth one, eh?_

The apostate froze. "You're the one who came to me."

"Yes." Fenris coughed. "I... apologize. I came because I was asked. I'm not good at this sort of thing."

"People usually offer their condolences." There was something slightly bitter to Hawke's voice. Fenris could not tell whether it was directed at him, or at the nameless individuals who had already visited to express their sympathies, real or contrived.

"To be honest, I don't think there is much point in filling these moments with empty talk," he muttered.

Hawke turned to look at him.

"Who have you lost, then?" the mage asked.

Fenris shrugged. "An acquaintance, here and there. No one of importance." _Except myself. And I do not recall that, so it hardly counts._

"No family? Except your sister, of course."

"If I had such, I have no memory of them. At least you knew your mother."

To that, Hawke seemed to have no answer. The man just observed him in silence, as if trying to measure the complexity of thought beneath his words. Would that there had been any. It was the truth; he had no family, no friends. The people closest to him were ones he sought to kill, or already had.

Painfully self-conscious, Fenris looked toward the light seeping in through the deep gashes of windows at the opposite end of the room. Just to do something, he took a few steps toward it. Even indirect sunlight seemed very bright against the shadows, past and present, that surrounded them in the ancient Tevinter room.

"Would you to me a favor?" Hawke asked.

"What, then?"

"Would you offer me those empty condolences? Just to humor me."

A fraction of the old Hawke was still there, then. Fenris turned toward him, hoping that the light behind him would mask his slight blush. "I am sorry for your loss," he said. The words rumbled from his chest, almost too thick to be just meaningless chatter.

"Thank you." Hawke looked away. "If I am to blame for not saving her, at least -"

Fenris scowled. "Surely you do not feel guilty for what that abomination did!"

"No, not exactly, but... I could have done... something. And I chose not to."

"What do you mean?"

After Lady Leandra's death, it had been Isabela who'd gone to Hawke, waking him from his trance of sorrow. The mage had pushed himself from the floor, his dead mother in his arms, and walked past them, not even bothering to wipe the tears from his face. Without as much as a gesture, flames had erupted from the floor behind him, swallowing Quentin and DuPuis. Next day the great fire in the abandoned old Foundry had been on everyone's lips, and many had made a big deal out of knowing that the place had been haunted.

Looking at Hawke now, Fenris knew that he still carried that place in him. Would perhaps always do so.

Hawke curled his fingers into fists. "I almost gave in to that... beast," he said, his voice low. "Almost proved everything the Order ever said. Or you."

"What?" An ominous understanding started to rear its head. "Hawke, surely you're not talking of -"

"Carver said I belong in the Circle," Hawke continued. "And I'm beginning to agree. I cut myself, before she died, Fenris. The wound is gone, but the memory doesn't heal. And I don't know how to get rid of it. Or how to make sure it'll never happen again. Wryme knows who I am. How can I ever be sure that I won't..."

The words trailed off.

_Wryme?_ Fenris thought, incredulously.

He recalled Hawke on his knees in Quentin's mockery of a dining room, his back to them, holding the dying patchwork woman in his arms. Yes, there had been the unmistakable stink of blood magic, the familiar sinister feeling of the Veil ripping and something large and immensely powerful reaching across... And then it had been gone, like ripples from water, as if it never existed.

Fenris had assumed that the tear had been caused by the maleficar's spell unraveling from Leandra Amell. But now he saw the truth.

_So he almost did it._

"Hawke... Don't you understand what this means?"

Hawke looked at him from under his brows. "That I'm a danger to everyone around me? That I should turn myself in?"

Fenris felt slightly irritated. _Nothing has changed. The man is still an idiot._ "Do you think a spirit of that rank just chooses its target randomly? Demons do not gamble. Wryme chose you because you are strong enough, and conflicted. Because it saw in you a certain path to the waking."

"I know that!"

"Evidently you do not! By no right should you have been able to do so, yet you fought a pride demon, and resisted. I've never even heard of anyone who has done such a thing! And you think you are _weak?_"

"But —" Now Hawke was staring at him. "I thought..."

"Yes, you always think, don't you? And yet so little sense seems to come out of it. Hawke, one of the strongest demons in the Fade courted you, and you rejected it. And now you piss and moan and feel sorry for yourself? The Hawke I know would have been singing his own praises!" Fenris threw a look at the wall. "Bah. Why do I even care? By no means, let not me nor logic distract you from your self pity."

Hawke's smudged forehead creased with astonishment and anger. Then it suddenly cleared.

"Oh, Maker. You never change, do you?" The apostate bowed his head and chuckled. Then he looked again at Fenris, who again felt a blush on his cheeks, and wished the light from behind him was truly bright enough to hide his sudden discomposure.

"Still able to compliment and insult me in the same sentence, it seems," Hawke said and crossed his arms. "I'm not sure I can see it the way you do, yet, but... thank you. I will think on what you said."

Suddenly at a loss for words, Fenris nodded and turned away, searching for an excuse to not look at the mage. He noticed a large wooden box on a table near the wall, full of strange, blackened objects. He took a step toward it.

"But I tire of this talk about me. How are _you,_ Fenris?" he heard Hawke say.

"Me?" The elf glanced over his shoulder. "People rarely ask."

"I'm asking now."

The elf frowned. "To be honest, I don't know. Fine, I suppose? I still keep looking over my shoulder. Danarius will make his final move, eventually."

"All these years and wasted effort, and he hasn't given up? Gives a new meaning for the word obsessed."

"You do not understand Tevinter mentality. I shamed him in the eyes of his rivals. He will come. He would, even if nearly all of his assets weren't buried in my skin."

He reached the table and took one of the strange objects from the box, and found himself holding a delicate wooden rose, burned black. The likeness was remarkable. The soot on it stained the bare underside of his gauntleted fingers.

"I didn't know you're an artist, Hawke," he said, turning the object around in his hand. Behind him, he heard the mage move in the room.

"I'm not." Hawke gave a small awkward laugh. "Those are just something my father taught me to do. It's not enough to be able to blow things up. To be efficient, one needs accuracy. Control."

"I've never seen anything like it." There was a heap of similar blackened things in the soot-lined box. Some were abstract shapes, twisted and coiled upon themselves, some resembled things of nature, such as the rose he held. He put it back in the box and took another of the small carvings. It was a figurine of a naked woman. With spread thighs and ridiculously big teats. "Yes. Quite... accurate."

"You don't want to know how many times I've blistered myself, working on those." Fenris had clearly let his guard down; he almost jumped when he realized how close Hawke suddenly was. Standing directly behind him, now, the mage looked over his shoulder at the ribald figurine, and coughed. "Ah, yes. Not art."

"Art is in the eye of the beholder." Suddenly reluctant to find out what other likenesses the man had crafted with his cursed gift, Fenris tossed the little carving back, and brushed soot from his fingers. He was just about to step away when Hawke spoke. His voice sounded lower than before, deliberate.

"I've been meaning to thank you for what you did that day. When you stopped me, at DuPuis' house."

"Don't mention it, Hawke," Fenris said. _Really. Don't._ The man's proximity was starting to do things to his senses.

"No, I want to. If you hadn't... well, I do not fear death, but – I keep thinking about mother's fate, had I not -" The words trailed off. When the apostate spoke again, Fenris heard a bleak smile in his voice. "Still can't form any coherent sentences about it, eh? Well, in any case. Thank you, Fenris."

He couldn't help it. So close, Hawke's voice alone was enough to sent a shiver down the markings that started from his ears. It ran over his chest and stomach, down to where, under the mercifully concealing armor, things were already starting to get uncomfortable.

There was nothing he could do about it, except leave.

"Think nothing of it," he said. "Listen, I –"

Hawke did not let him finish. "Why did you do it?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Why did you stop me? Sometimes I'm not sure you don't hate me, yet you did that."

"I don't hate you," he said, his voice strained.

"But you don't particularly like me, either. Maker, I know there was a time you would have wished me a happy trip to the Void."

"I owe you. For Hadriana, and —"

"So that's all it is?" Hawke's voice gained a hard edge. "A business exchange? Why don't I believe you?"

It was stretching on for too long. The man had not even touched him, yet Fenris felt himself grow dizzy. What had been a distant ache was turning into a deep, slowly flowing river of agony that kept trying to find its way out.

"What do you want me to say, Hawke?" he asked, almost desperate, now.

"What do _I_ want? You came to _me_."

And like the trigger of a trap it switched, the precarious balance between them tilting toward what wrestled beneath his consciousness. Memory and dream; Hawke embracing him in the darkness of his bed, making love to him; an armored hand on his face, the other one inside his clothes, searing a bloodied path down the length of his markings.

And again, the Rivaini had been right. It would always be like this. There was no chance they would ever be just... business partners.

_Leave. Now._

Without an ounce of his usual grace he stepped back and turned, and bumped the curved iron on his shoulder into Hawke's chest. The contact hit him like one of the man's spells. He froze and fought down an instinctive phasing that fizzled through his right arm. Unable to meet Hawke's eyes, he stared down at the man's chest, revealed by the partly open shirt. Against the muscle and dark hair there, Fenris saw a delicate golden pendant, and recalled the piece of women's jewelry the apostate had held in his hand beneath the Foundry, in the dismal place where they'd found his mother.

"Why did you really come, Fenris?"

_I came because I was asked._

— _a palm stroking the coiling brands on his thigh and a tongue tracing one close to — and the smell of glowing embers, blistering his cheek as a hand closed around his throat, cutting out his air —_

Drawing a tortuous breath, Fenris looked up, to find that Hawke's face was only an inch from his own.

The first touch of the man's lips on his own was almost hesitant. A warm hand circled the back of his neck, a thumb resting at the base of his ear, as it tilted his head into the kiss. Then, another hand at his back, pulling his armored chest against Hawke. Even through leather and plate it felt like being pressed against a hot stove.

The touch was gentle, almost deliberate, but the lyrium did not care. It shimmered into life and throbbed lewdly, and within a few beats of blood moving he was as hard as he's ever been.

An incoherent sound rose from his throat as a rough thumb traced the sweep of his ear and continued down the glowing, long brand that curved at the side of his neck. A thrill traveled through it, sharp like the swing of a blade, from the base of his neck to the pit of his stomach. His knees grew weak. Hawke's lips ghosted over his own, the beard tickling his skin... _too gentle_. He opened his mouth and, unable to help himself, brushed his teeth over the man's lower lip.

Shuddering, the mage pulled away.

Separation was acutely painful. Like someone had found a way to grasp the lyrium and try to pull it from his flesh. His head pounded with sudden agony and cold sweat broke on his skin. He swayed, for some insane reason thinking for a moment that he was back in Minrathous.

Hawke wiped his hand across his eyes. "Maker," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I shouldn't have —"

Fenris stumbled to Hawke, pulled the man's face down to his. "No, I –" the mage started and made to retreat, but Fenris was already kissing him, pressing himself against the other man's larger frame. Hawke grabbed his shoulders and tried to resist. But Fenris was stronger than him. After what was less than ten seconds of half-hearted struggle, Hawke groaned wordlessly, and gave in. This time there was no hesitation as he wound his fingers in the elf's hair and deepened the kiss.

It was not just arousal. The room could have been full of people, and Fenris wouldn't have cared.

Somehow he got his gauntlets off behind Hawke's back, knowing how to do it by instinct alone. He pulled at Hawke's shirt. Surely the coarse, thick lines of lyrium in his palms and fingers must feel unpleasant against anyone's skin – but, even so, Hawke moaned in his ear, and the heavy muscle of the man's back shifted under his hands.

Blessedly the mage seemed to recall how to remove his armor. The wide belt fell to the floor, then the cuirass, and the doublet and spiky arm harness followed. Hawke pulled his own soiled shirt over his head. The pendant around his neck was a tiny, sharp sliver against Fenris' chest, before the contact of Hawke's skin to his own swallowed all detail, drowning him in heat that was much more than the sum of their connected bodies.

The pain was not gone. It would always be there. But now, momentarily, like a river that flows to its end, it had dissolved, lost to its source. On the map of his consciousness it no longer had a name or shape. And neither did he.

Somehow he was guided away from the light and lowered into something, perhaps because it had become impossible to stay on his feet. With tugs and tosses the mage removed the rest of his gear and cloth, a hand momentarily lingering on his left foot, a thumb tracing the curve and dot of a thick brand in the skin over his tarsal bones. Out of patience for caresses, Fenris wrapped his legs around Hawke, pulled the man down to him. And Hawke obeyed, and kissed him again, wet warmth slicking his stained skin.

The sound of a belt being unbuckled, oddly clear through the pounding of blood in his head.

There was no search for conveniences, this time, just spittle and precum. He would have felt pain, but the mad throb of his branding did not allow for such circumstances. Instead, he wrapped his legs around Hawke even tighter, encouraging the intrusion, and licked the mouth so close to his own. Hawke said something, no longer quite able to form a coherent word, and nudged and moved until he was buried to the hilt.

It was like being thrown into a boiling cauldron and impaled by a red-hot iron. Not unlike he had seen happen to escaped slaves in Minrathous. But his own salvation would not come in the form of death.

Close... so close, now. He only needed a touch to send him over the edge. But Hawke did not oblige. Fenris barely noticed how the man was seeking a better angle to thrust into him, working one hand under his left thigh, pressing a heavy arm into the bend of his knee. Then the trail of hair on Hawke's bare abdomen brushed the underside of his erection. The lyrium embedded there pierced like a spear through nerves and instinct. And that was all it took. He drew air into his lungs as his orgasm started to build, coiling tight with the tentative knowledge of what would happen.

Hawke moved inside him and his head jerked back with the first thrust.

Crying out, he arched his spine. His cock pressed against Hawke's stomach and released a long thread of come.

— _searing sun bathes him as a desert wind breaths the twisted linen of his head cloth across his face. Thirsty. His hand clutches the wooden shackle that ties his mother's hands behind her back. Somewhere a whip cracks through air and a familiar voice rises in pain. Even Varania has fallen silent, finally, weeping now without sound or even tears. At least they have not been separated on the long march, like so many others —_

As always, it was impossible to say how long it lasted. Slowly the fog cleared. Tendrils of semen were rolling lazily down his skin, tracing the still shimmering brands that unfurled in it. Gradually he became aware of detail, of the coarse surface of a hard bedroll beneath his back, of the buckle of Hawke's belt against his ass. Of his own fingers clasping the man's wrist in what must be a crushing grip. Of the golden pendant lying on his chest.

"Does it hurt too much?" Hawke asked, the words rough and uneven.

Of course it hurt. The man was a goddamn ox. "Go on," he rasped.

_Did you escape Danarius just to become the pet for another mage? To serve as his catamite?_ The pride demon's words reached him from memory, clear and mocking.

_Would that be so bad? He is nothing like... them._

Slave thoughts. Ones longing for a master. Weak, addicted. But there they were. And for a second, in this momentary respite from the lyrium that never allowed him certainty of his own motives, he realized that the choice seemed almost... logical.

_Would it be possible? To be with him?_

It felt almost natural to let it happen, to allow Hawke to kiss him, and to twine his arms around the man's neck, not like someone he was just having sex with... like a lover. Perhaps he had once been forced to this, but there were no such excuses, now, nothing but the fact that he actually wanted this to happen, to feel Hawke thrust into him.

Then the mage tensed up and groaned, wincing. "I love you," Hawke stammered through his teeth. "Maker's breath..!" And he jerked and bucked and released his scalding heat deep inside Fenris.

Eventually Hawke relaxed against him, gasping for breath.

The man was heavy and sweaty and dirty, yet it would have been... pleasant, to remain like that. But by now the contact was becoming a liability. Tentatively he pushed at the large shoulder resting on his chest.

Even that small gesture was enough to make Hawke start and retreat. The man almost threw himself against the wall next to the bedroll, still panting, beads of sweat running down his temples, strands of dark hair plastered to his forehead.

"Shit!" Hawke rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm so sorry. Maker. I don't know what to say."

Fenris lifted his head and shoulders, to lean on his elbows. "Hawke —"

"No! Don't say it. I know." The mage got on his legs. They weren't all that steady, but somehow he managed to take a few steps away, not looking at Fenris as he fumbled his barely softening cock into his breeches and buttoned them with trembling fingers, buckling his belt on top.

"Look. I'm sorry. I mean it. I don't — It was a mistake. You shouldn't have come! I can't control myself with..."

Fenris glanced at the wall, then back at Hawke. "But I —"

"Listen. It won't happen again, all right? I give you my word."

"Hawke —"

"I'm getting married."

"I — What?"

The mage picked his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, not bothering to tuck it into his pants. "I've thought about it every since mother... passed away. She wanted me to settle down, to start behaving like someone responsible, not just... piss around and waste time. And she was right. I owe it to her, to do it."

"I see." Fenris sat up, ran his fingers through his matted white hair. His ass stung like crazy and his markings ached like after a solid beating. But he knew that physical pain wasn't the reason why he suddenly felt ill.

"Look, Hawke, I'm not —"

"Don't say anything, all right? Just... don't." Apparently once more the master of his own legs, Hawke walked across the room to the stairs and took them two steps at a time. At the door, he hesitated for a few seconds.

"I don't think we should see each other again for a while. Obviously I can't trust myself around you," he said and was gone.

Absently, Fenris wiped at his face. His fingers brushed away something thicker than mere sweat. It took a while for him to realize it was his own spunk.

He stood up, his legs still shaky. Trying to ignore the feeling of something trickling down between them, he walked to a barrel of water and splashed some of it over himself.

Then he gagged, only barely keeping down the contents of his stomach.

"Idiot," he muttered in Arcanum after controlling the involuntary spasm. _What are you, a child?_

But even as he told himself that this, too, would pass, he knew that he was lying.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Skipping into Act 3, just because I want to get this done one day. The Qunari tried to take over, Isabela brought back the relic, and went into hiding / left. Hawke became the Champion. Three years passed. But wait. There's more..._

* * *

><p>When the Champion of Kirkwall finally managed to get out of the house and into the night redolent of sea and the memory of a warm autumn day, Varric Tethras appeared from where he'd been leaning against the wall of the Amell Estate, and tucked away a small notebook and a pen.<p>

"I would ask what took you so long, Hawke, but the sound of breaking pottery kind of announced itself." The dwarf jabbed a thumb toward the open window above the portico.

Muttering something under his breath, Hawke approached, and the light of a nearby lantern fell on his face. Varric gave a low whistle.

"By the sagging tits of my Ancestors. Your love life's more twisted than the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, my friend."

Hawke touched his stinging cheek. Was there an actual bruise? After a quick glance around, he healed it up a bit – but no magic would completely remove the sign of his wife's slender but surprisingly strong hand from the side of his face.

"Remind me why I married an Antivan, again," he said mildly as the two of them started towards the market and the stairs that would take them to Lowtown.

"Because she's beautiful, stacked, rich, and her voice turns grown men into pudding?"

Hawke produced a pipe from his belt pouch. "You have a knack for boiling things down to the essential, Varric."

"A skill shared by every storyteller worth his salt. So, what was it this time, Hawke? Flirting with the maids? Not remembering Marcia's birthday?"

The mage filled his pipe with a nugget of _melleta, _a hard resin made with lyrium dust and blightcap, and set it smoldering with an almost invisible touch of magic. Smoking the resin was a Tevinter habit he'd picked up years ago, after being obliged by Meredith to play host to a rather fascinating diplomatic envoy from the Imperium.

Frowning in thought, Hawke puffed on his pipe. "I told her she has a wrinkle."

Varric looked shocked. "No! Hawke, I thought you were an intelligent man."

"She has a sense of humor but things... declined from there."

The dwarf sighed. "Why do you keep annoying her? Do you have a death wish?"

"The makeup sex is amazing?"

"Right. So _that's_ what the screaming was all about."

Hawke bit the stem of his pipe. _Blight take those windows. A proper show for the neighbors again, eh?_

Not that the rumors concerning his domestic life could get any worse. But... He'd made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. At least when Marcia didn't kick him to the floor.

They took a side route to the market, through a winding passage that descended toward the square. Torches illuminated the colorful signs of expensive market-side taverns, inns and brothels.

Music and voices - mostly human ones - filled these slightly less high-brow alleys of Hightown. Enticing smells and sounds drifted from open windows. There were also more people around, and necessary bows and curtsies were performed, as groups of pedestrians passed each other on the narrow corridors and stairs.

Despite years of practice, Hawke had never really mastered the art of empty courtesy. The only relief his position as a Champion had brought was that someone bearing the lofty title was not really expected to do more than incline his head to anyone of lesser standing. Well, that and the fact that people no longer asked him to get their cats down from trees. Thank the Maker for small mercies. They still expected him to slaughter blood mages, though. Aveline's boys and girls now usually took care of more ordinary outlaws.

"You know Hawke... There are some who would be very happy with what you've got," Varric said when they passed a particularly handsome duo of young noblewomen who kept giggling behind their Orlesian fans and throwing the Champion meaningful glances.

Hawke scowled and took his pipe from his mouth. "What makes you think I'm not happy?"

Varric scratched his beardless chin. "Perhaps the permanently morose expression?"

"I'm not morose," Hawke grumbled.

"Varric, a mental note. When the Champion scowls, it means he's perfectly happy."

"I'm not scowling. I'm thinking grave thoughts."

"Yes, that's -"

Suddenly Hawke stopped dead in his tracks. "Dear Maker."

"What?" Varric looked around. "I don't see anyth-"

The dwarf yelped, as the apostate whisked him through the open doors of a nearby tavern.

"Hey! Your ladies might find it sexy when you manhandle them, but please, spare me the embarrassment." Varric straightened his coat and Bianca's harness. Then he raised his eyebrows in surprise, as the mage followed him in and hid behind a door-post, lifting a finger to his lips.

Hawke craned his neck to peek outside, then immediately pulled back. "Isabela," he mumbled from the side of his mouth, the other still closed around the stem of his smoking pipe.

Varric frowned. "What? Are you sure?"

Hawke nodded.

The direction of the dwarf's eyes was drawn through an open window, as a familiar figure appeared through the crowd.

"Andraste's ass. It _is_ her."

Everything about the rogue was pretty much as it had always been. A swagger to her step, a glow to her dark skin, a twist to her full mouth... And although her corseted outfit was different, it did not invite less, nor her wicked daggers more. She had a white, wide-brimmed hat with a plush plume on her head, and while most people would have looked ridiculous under such an ostentatious accessory, she somehow managed to pull it off, just like she pulled off walking through the fancy street as if she owned the whole damn place.

Also, she still seemed to find wearing pants a useless complication.

"What's she doing here?" Hawke asked.

Varric shrugged. "Should we go and ask?"

_No way._ Hawke masked his reluctance in his usual excuse - humor. "And where's the fun in that? Have you lost your sense of adventure, Varric?"

"I send it to laundry every Thursday."

Suddenly a tittering laugh startled them both. "Oh, Maker... it's the Champion himself!"

The duo turned to look upon a young, plump waiter and an open-mouthed audience of staring patrons. The girl curtsied and blushed all the way to her ears. "Can I get you two heroes something?"

Hawke tossed the girl a few silvers, then stole out of the tavern and, without need to explain his change of direction to the leader of House Tethras, started tailing the Rivaini. Trying not to lose sight of her, they kept a distance that would not alert her to their presence.

"I don't get it," Hawke muttered as he knocked his pipe empty and pocketed it. "Three years and _now_ she appears. I wasn't even sure she's still alive."

Varric struggled a bit to keep up, his legs being so much shorter than either Hawke's or Isabela's. "I did hear she _might_ be in town, but -"

"You did? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Blast it, how did I forget? Oh yeah, could it be that it was two days ago and we haven't seen each other _for weeks_?"

"Oh." Hawke frowned. "But I just came to the Hanged Man for a game of Wicked Grace -"

"Yeah. Three weeks ago. Blondie has been asking after you, by the way. He's growing more restless than a nest of ants. Whatever the man's up to, I'm surprised he hasn't come to Hightown already. He's... planning something. And whatever it is, I don't like it. I bet it has something to do with politics. And you know how I hate politics."

"Probably he just needs money to make more copies of his bloody manifesto."

Varric snorted. "Maybe. Maybe it's for food. The man's so thin these days, you could

lose him in that staff collection of yours."

Truth be told, Hawke had been avoiding Anders. The man's endless tirades against the Order were getting tiresome. After Meredith had acknowledged Hawke's position as a free mage, Anders had expected things to improve for other mages, too – and in doing so, he had completely failed to understand how precarious Hawke's situation was. So far little had changed, at least for the better, and gradually the healer's unreserved admiration had given way to what could only be called disenchantment. Last time they'd argued, he'd blatantly accused Hawke of becoming the Knight-Commander's lapdog, and after that, they hadn't talked much.

"I know where she's going," Hawke said when they reached the ancient main square, shadowed by massive bronze statues that lined the enormous stairs to the Viscount's Keep.

"Yeah. To pick a rose that blooms all year round," Varric muttered back.

And indeed, now whistling audibly in the stately quiet of the Estates, the white plume of her hat bobbing with each step, the rogue ambled in the direction of Kirkwall's most expensive bawdy-house. Carefully Hawke and Varric followed the Rivaini, moving from one shadow to the next. There were no crowds or twisting corners, here, and they had to keep more distance in order to remain hidden.

Once or twice Hawke wondered whether following her like this was a bit... paranoid. When had mistrust become his default reaction to anything?

But one thing the tightrope of Kirkwall politics had taught him was that spying was usually a much more reliable way to find things out than asking.

Not far from the main square, the Blooming Rose accepted wealthy clients at all hours of the day. Passing a corner, Hawke saw Isabela step into the deceptively unassuming building – just one of the many tall stone houses that lined the small square. The warm light from inside licked the stone pavement for a second before the door closed behind her.

Hawke and Varric looked at each other.

"Shall we?" the dwarf asked.

"I suppose it would be silly not to, after all this trouble," the mage said and started across the square.

But before they could get even half way through, their way was blocked by a dark, short man in a foreign mercenary's russet leather armor.

"Ah, the Champion of Kirkwall. Your reputation precedes you."

Hawke was not really surprised to be bothered by a stranger, not even at this late hour. Although he was no longer expected to find every missing child and stolen love letter in Kirkwall, it was a rare day that passed without a business proposal of some kind.

However, a heavy Antivan accent was not exactly a thing that endeared anyone to him, right now. He gave the stranger a withering look – a skill he'd perfected over the years - and to his satisfaction, the man took a step back and blanched ever so slightly.

"And you are..?"

"Forgive me, messere. I happened to notice you passing by. I... perhaps I should not have approached so boldly? My name is Nuncio Caldera Lanos. I am a noble from the beautiful country of Antiva."

_Why do people always waste my time by insisting to state the obvious? _"It must have taken a lot of practice to say that all in one breath."

Emboldened by the suggestion of humor, the Antivan straightened and smiled at the tall Fereldan. Hawke did not miss how, despite the friendly demeanor, the man's eyes assessed him with the detachment of a professional soldier. "It's mostly to impress the ladies, I assure you. I've come to ask your help, Champion."

Less surprised every second, Hawke resigned himself to hear what the man had to say.

o o o

Hawke still remembered the first time he'd set foot in the Blooming Rose, almost a decade ago. He'd been little more than a young thug without a sovereign to his name, used to acting confident, but often lacking the actual feeling to back it up. It had been a visit for business, not pleasure. An Orlesian nobleman named Ghyslain de Carrac had hired him to find his wife, and the task had involved talking to Jethann, one of the most well paid courtesans in the whole city. To his mortification, Jethann had turned out to be male, and an elf.

The looks Hawke had received from the waitresses after stepping in had nigh emasculated him. None of the bawds in the common room – not even the least expensive ones – had wasted even that much attention on him. Jethann, however, had taken to him immediately and blatantly tried to seduce him. He'd been yet to meet Fenris, and the idea of sex with another man had been... intimidating. After getting his information from the elf he'd beaten a hasty retreat, but Jethann's throaty laughter had stayed with him, giving rise to a curiosity that had, perhaps, later helped to trigger his reaction to Fenris.

That had happened ten years ago, to a different man. Tonight, when Garrett Hawke and Varric Tethras entered Madame Lusine's grandiosely furbished establishment, the crowd parted to let them through, and it took only moments before they were approached by a waitress, who afforded them the kind of treatment Rose would have extended to visiting royalty. In other words, she was impeccably polite, but still not particularly warm. The Rose was famous throughout the Marches, and did not need to kowtow to anyone.

Tall and dark, dressed in a high-necked, elegant gown, she had the sharp, no-nonsense manner of all the Rose's staff who weren't directly for sale.

"Welcome, Champion. Have you come to see someone special, or would you like to browse?" she asked.

"Just here to meet a friend, Viveka," Hawke said and pressed a few silvers in the hand of the house guard who had taken their weapons for safekeeping.

"Certainly. Please enjoy your visit, Champion," she said and bent her knees augustly.

It was impossible for Hawke to navigate through the clientele without attracting any attention, but with some select gestures and a few coins placed in the right hands he managed to keep it down enough to reach the door of the common room without alerting the whole house to his arrival. Stopping momentarily at the threshold, he quickly scanned the patrons flocking the bowlegged Orlesian tables and chairs, and looked for a certain white plume and the glint of a golden choker.

As far as decency went, the Rose had simple rules. Anything paid beyond drinks had to be conducted upstairs, and so-called 'exotic performances' took place in side rooms. The common spaces were relatively chaste. Every night, quite many people visited only to enjoy the atmosphere and hideously overpriced drinks with their acquaintances. Yet, due to the risque wall paintings and the numerous scantily clad bawds, it was also quite impossible to forget the nature of the place, or the base function around which its existence revolved.

It only took a while before Hawke noticed Isabela and her outrageous hat near the bar, ordering drinks from Quintus. She'd obviously come to some coin, for quite a few of the Rose's familiar faces had already gathered around her, laughing and talking animatedly.

The mage knew the employees' interest in her was not just for the sake of drinks. He did not know the exact nature of Isabela's relationship with the Rose, but he suspected she did a bit of moonlighting for Madame Lusine. Whatever the reason, she was considered some sort of an aunt for the younger prostitutes, and they turned to her in whatever trouble they got themselves into – whenever she was around.

"Well, kick me if I'm wrong, Hawke, but isn't that our favorite Tevinter fugitive?" Varric asked as he stepped to the Champion's side. "Two lost birds with a single shot, don't you think?"

Whatever the mage had been about to say died in his throat, as he noticed a white-haired head near Isabela, one that belonged to a tall elf in dark clothes.

It was several months since they'd last met, at Varric's. Fenris had been his normal quiet self and, as usual, hardly even looked at Hawke as he concentrated on losing yet another handful of silver to the cards and Corff's shitty wine cellar.

But now he looked... different. In a way that made Hawke's breath hitch.

Fenris was not wearing his armor, but there was more to it. Hawke recalled some rather acerbic comments he'd made when they'd visited the Rose before, but now he appeared almost unconcerned by the setting, deigning even to converse with a clearly enamored young courtesan who showered him with chitchat, perhaps not aware that next to the striking Tevinter elf, she looked rather dull and ordinary.

Fenris had a deep tan that set off his tattoos, and his hair was bleached snow white by the sun. For some reason he'd allowed it to grow, and it curled softly around his face and neck, long enough to actually reach his shoulders. His clothes were of dark leather and well made – an open-necked vest, breeches and gaiters that left his feet and arms bare. Their fitting cut complimented his lean, muscular physique, honed by endless hours of sword fight.

But what made Hawke's heart ache the most, even from afar, was the the elf's smile. Maybe the expression still held much of his irony, but in his eyes Hawke perceived a glint he did not remember seeing before. Or perhaps once? But the memory was too painful to linger on.

With her back still to Hawke, Isabela handed Fenris a tall pewter tankard. The elf took it from her, and his smile assumed a strange softness, as he said something that made the Rivaini laugh and throw her hair in a flirtatious manner.

The leather of Hawke's gloves creaked as his hands tightened into fists, heated by the first build-up of a spell.

The way Isabela leaned toward Fenris, the way the elf looked at her...

_Impossible._

Suddenly Hawke felt Varric's elbow dig into his the ribs, not all that gently.

"Should we perhaps quit playing a bolted door, Hawke?"

The mage looked around and realized that they had, for quite some time, barred the way from anyone wanting to leave or enter the common room through the foyer. Anybody but the Champion would already have been kicked out of the way. With things as they were, people just stood around, trying their best not to give him strange looks.

He forced his hands to relax. The faint smell of burning reached his nose, was gone. To anyone else it might have been just the smoke of a guttering candle.

His mind still burned. _They can't be anything beyond friends. Can they?_

"Right," he said, and stepped into the room, knowing that it would alert everyone there to his presence. Those standing at the counter included.

And true enough, as soon as he moved, the elf's eyes flickered toward him. And the smile vanished, replaced by a familiar shadow of wariness.

As Hawke walked toward the bar, he grew aware of Isabela's influence in the gold trim and glove-like fit of Fenris's new clothes. Aside from a wide belt, his only accessory was a red scarf around his right wrist. A favor from her, perhaps? Even the gauntlets were gone. Surely Fenris must feel very naked with so much of his markings bare for anyone to see. Yet he did not seem concerned by it. Not even as the people around him ogled.

Which they certainly did, Hawke noticed to his annoyance.

An elf customer at the Rose was almost unheard of. Many establishments in Hightown did not even accept so-called knife-ears through their doors. Madame Lusine, however, did not care who paid for her. There just weren't any elves in Kirkwall who could have afforded her prices. The way Fenris had smiled and leaned against the counter, looking so handsome... Someone might have mistaken him for an employee. Hawke could imagine the fate of the poor bugger. A few broken fingers might have been the least painful option.

And why was he thinking of such things, anyway? Perhaps because it was simply impossible to stray very far from the topic, here? A fact that his physical unease attested to, as he arrived at the counter, just a step away from two people he'd once intimately known.

"Tired of the rat-flavored whiskey over at the Hanged Man?" he asked.

Isabela turned toward him and Varric, and ooh-ed in a feigned surprise that told Hawke she had noticed them long ago. The whores around them took one quick look at the Champion, and faded away with their drinks – even the reluctant one who had had her eyes set on Fenris.

The elf just met Hawke's gaze warily and nodded, beautiful green eyes glinting in the shadow of his brows and white hair.

_They cannot be lovers. It's not possible._ But even as Hawke kept repeating it in his mind, his instinct told him otherwise. The way the two stood so close together... Fenris had always been very mindful of his personal space, but now Hawke could not help but notice his lack of aversion to Isabela's proximity.

Isabela folded from her waist into an elaborate bow, enhanced by a sweep of her plumed hat. "Greetings, oh Champion of Kirkwall. Seeking solace from the rigors of matrimony?"

Hawke recalled the red mark on the side of his face and cleared his throat. "Let's just say I saw an interesting bird flutter by and decided to take a detour."

Straightening her back, Isabela flopped the hat back on her dark curls and smiled, like she most always did. "Yes, the pirate queen hath returned, bringing along her handsome sidekick."

"Sidekick..?" Fenris raised a black eyebrow.

"Hey! I said 'handsome.'"

"Yes. The next time you need me to pull you out of a scrape, I shall endeavor to look handsome."

"Uh oh." The rogue waggled her eyebrows.

_Maker. They even bicker like lovers._

"You know, Rivaini, had I known you'd be around, I'd have brought my copy of _Boys in the Circle_ for an autograph," the dwarf said from Hawke's side.

Isabela grinned broadly and clasped the storyteller's hands in a friendly grip. "Varric! How are you, you old scoundrel? Oh, I've missed you! And Bianca."

"What you mean is you've missed my coin purse, you tart." But Varric's smile was genuinely warm as he returned her greeting.

"Well, it is a very large and attractive purse," Isabela said, then turned back to Hawke. "And how are things with you, oh mighty Champion? Everything all right at home? The missus is happy, the coin keeps flowing? The skirt-wearing population of Kirkwall remain safely at each other's throats?"

Hawke was starting to get the feeling she was perhaps trying a bit too hard to appear nonchalant. Why would she be nervous... unless she had something to hide?

"All is well. And you two? Didn't know you would be... together."

Isabela's laughter was perhaps a tad embarrassed. "Oh, right. I wrote him a letter, bothered him to come visit me in Ostwick. And you know how it is. You come for some cookies and tea, then, bam... you're running from someone who thinks your five-o-clock buddy made off with a bit of something."

"A way to put it, I suppose." Fenris lifted his tankard to drink from it.

Hawke frowned. "A letter?" _But..._

Isabela's eyes widened. "Oh! Did you know those Tevinter bastards don't teach their slaves to read? Even the most priced ones?" She pointed a thumb at Fenris. "He actually paid for someone to read his letters for him! That's, like, the saddest thing ever! How can he read literary masterpieces like _Boys in the Circle_ if he can't, well, read? So, _I_ had to do it. Teach him, I mean. Ugh, of all the things I've ever taught anyone, the alphabet is definitely the least exciting."

"Not for the lack of trying. The training material you used..." Fenris muttered.

A new kind of jealousy clawed at Hawke. This time it had nothing to do with intimacy. For a moment it would have pleased him greatly to curl his fingers around the Rivaini's windpipe and slowly crush it.

"That's surprising. I didn't think you had it in you to be so patient, Isabela. You who didn't even have time to write _me_. And I know how you love to write. You know, for quite some time I thought you were dead."

A silence fell. Fenris busied himself with downing his ale. Varric showed no such qualms about listening.

Her smile wavered, then died. She sighed and took off her hat, ran her fingers through her hair.

"Oh, bugger. What could I have written? That I still don't have a ship? That I'm thieving and screwing my way through half of the Free Marches?" She looked at Hawke ruefully, and – to his surprise – not without quite a bit of self deprecation. "No fitting company for a Champion."

"I should imagine that would depend on the Champion." He crossed his arms. "You brought back the relic. You did the right thing."

"It may have been the right thing, Hawke, but it was also the dumb thing. The relic was mine. I should've kept running. And don't bother trying to tell me you couldn't have done it without me, because that's bullshit. You could've stormed the Keep and slaughtered all those Qunari if you had to. I just... I couldn't do it. Not because it was the _right_ thing to do. Shit, my honor would fit under a thumbnail. I just couldn't do it to _you_, Hawke."

Suddenly Hawke realized Fenris was, perhaps, not the only one around who had changed.

_She sounds almost... Sincere._

"That doesn't explain why you disappeared, after."

"I did write you! Well, a couple of times. But the fact is, you and I have nothing in common anymore. You're a Champion, and I'm just a lying, thieving snake."

The way she turned the hat in her hands... The tightening of her shoulders. One doesn't bed someone for several years and not learn something of their body language. Hawke knew she was bracing herself against rejection.

And for a second he did think about it, about the short-lived satisfaction of hard words and spite. After all, he wasn't feeling as happy about seeing her as he could have. Not that he had anything real to hold against her. She _had_ come back, to face the Arishok's wrath. But how long was it since he'd felt genuinely happy about anything?

_You know exactly how long. _He stole a look at Fenris, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. The elf's eyes wondered, then for a brief moment met his. They were unreadable as ever, but for a short moment Hawke thought he saw color gather beneath the man's tanned skin. Then Fenris' black eyebrows drew together and he looked away.

Was it right to punish _her_ for what had happened between them? It made no sense to be jealous of something that wasn't his, and had never been.

"Perhaps." Hawke looked at the rogue again. "And perhaps you're just making excuses. But enough. Why are you back? I don't suppose it's just because you missed the amazing hat shops."

She twirled the ridiculous white concoction in her hands, then put it back on in a fit of self-consciousness. "Well... I heard an old friend might be in town."

"And after that?"

She chuckled almost regretfully and dropped her chin, hiding her eyes behind the hat's brim. "Well... I suppose I'll leave. I understand it if you don't want me around, Hawke."

The mage stroked his beard. "Really? Too bad you're not sticking around. I have all this work lined up." He turned to look at Varric. "Like that Antivan murderer we were hired to to track down. I understand you have some experience about assassin guilds..."

Isabela looked back up and for a second studied his face. Then her brown eyes widened.

Varric shrugged. "One poisoned dagger in your back is just like any other poisoned dagger in your back, if you catch my drift, Hawke."

"Wait, wait." Isabela actually stepped forward. "An Antivan assassin? A man? I don't suppose you're referring to an... elf?"

Hawke straightened. "As a matter of fact... I am. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you..?"

Isabela looked at Fenris, then back at them. She cocked her head, as if considering for a moment, then smiled mischievously. Hawke could have sworn he heard Fenris sigh a little, but when he looked at the elf, there was no sign any such sound had ever crossed the man's lips.

"Well... Remember when I said that an old friend of mine might be in town?" Isabela asked.

o o o

Very late that night – so late that Marcia had already retired to her chamber – Hawke returned home, only to find that sleep avoided him. For quite some time he sat in front of his desk, eyes fixed upon piles of correspondence.

While the title of a Champion might have come upon Hawke unexpectedly, he had not turned out completely unqualified for the job. Thanks to his dealings with half of the people who ran Kirkwall – publicly or not – he'd already built quite an impressive network of connections, and after becoming the Champion, he'd worked mercilessly to grow it, until by now it extended to almost every corner of the city.

For three years Hawke had kept a secret eye on everyone he called friend or enemy. He'd protected Anders and Merrill from the Order. He'd defended Aveline against her political rivals. He'd paid for the sordid details of Seneschal Bran's life and for the less sordid ones of Knight-Captain Cullen's. And while Meredith and Orsino surrounded themselves with people generally out of his reach, even they were not completely outside his knowledge.

Fenris had also been among those he followed. But it would have been a lie to say that his attention on the elf had been completely similar to the others.

Hawke was not altogether proud of how closely he had watched the elf. For years, through his friendship with Aveline and Varric and his connections to various guilds, Hawke had known pretty much everything Fenris did, from the jobs he took (mainly guarding property and people) to who visited his mansion (mostly Donnic and Varric). He'd even known which wines Fenris bought (he preferred Tevinter ones to Orlesian). Hawke had also staved off city authorities when they started looking too closely into the ownership of the crumbling old manor Fenris called his home.

And yet the times they'd met had been few and far between. After his wedding and the Qunari uprising, Hawke had busied himself with rebuilding his life and settling into his Championship. At some point he'd stopped actively avoiding Fenris, but ironically, after that they'd seen each other even less. With the Qunari finally gone, Hawke had no need for Fenris's knowledge about them. Danarius had kept away, as had the bounty hunters. They simply had no reason to meet, aside from a few gambling nights at Varric's suite in the Hanged Man. And those were hardly private affairs, with Donnic, Anders and some of Varric's business partners and drinking buddies among the usual faces.

And beyond all other reasons - as much as Hawke regretted what he'd done to the elf, he knew that he couldn't trust himself not to do it again. His body just refused to admit what his mind knew; that Fenris had no interest in him beyond someone who could help him against Danarius. And so the safest choice was to stay the hell away, even if completely letting go was just too damn painful.

Then, more than half a year ago, Fenris had simply disappeared again. And try as Hawke might, he had not found out where.

Until tonight.

What he'd felt, seeing Fenris and Isabela laugh and smile at each other in the Rose... Hawke had never thought himself a jealous man. But he could not deny that, during those first moments – despite the fact that she'd once been closer to him than Varric – he might have enjoyed slowly strangling her. Just because Fenris had looked at her with something he would never give to Hawke.

But what did it matter, in the end, that seeing Fenris had twisted Hawke's gut with happiness and pain? That, even now, he grew aroused just because he remembered the elf's graceful, narrow hands... so unlike any human's, always before hidden beneath his gauntlets, except for a few stolen moments.

Hawke was not free to do as he wished. He might not have been locked in the Circle, but he was chained, all the same - by Meredith's words, by his own when he'd proposed to his wife.

Varric had, of course, been right. He was not happy. He had not been happy in years.

But when had happiness ever been the lot of Champions?


	18. Chapter 18

_He awoke in a pile or corpses. It was dark, and not just because of the curtain of cold, dead flesh heaped upon him. Where his arm and ear stuck out from underneath lifeless friend and enemy, the wind brushed cold against his skin, and the muffled, distant drone of jungle life told of a night fallen._

_How he had not suffocated was beyond him. The stench of blood and decaying flesh was thick in the tiny pocket of air that his pinned down position allowed. Under the weight, his head and left arm were a formless mass of red agony. Pain lanced his markings with every heart beat and crushed his lungs with each breath that forced his broken ribs to move. But he could tell that, however bad, his suffering was not lethal. He would live... Should he wish it._

_When the pounding of his own heart gradually subsided, his sensitive ear picked up deep voices that spoke the Qun, quite a distance away. Yet not far enough to be safe. Beneath the gore, he could smell the sea, and the thick, green stench of the rainforest._

_Then he realized he could not feel the presence of the magister._

_White panic lashed through him, a pain worse than anything his body was going through._

_For as long as he'd known, that presence had always been there. The only exception was when his master had sent him for a task. It was unnatural for him to be separated from the magister and not know his location._

_At first, there was only one reason he could think of for being alone._

I've failed him. He's dead!

_Then it all came back to him – in fits of jagged memory, like shards of a broken mirror that fell into a jumbled heap in his mind._

_Fighting. Running to the pier. The Karashok. His master and Hadriana in the boat, gliding over blue waters toward safety... Then the dead Sten, falling. And finally – nothing._

__Gradually his strained breath eased again.__

_How long had he been unconscious?_

_And why was he not dead?_

_It was a question of observation, not regret. The undercurrent of his emotion was not formed enough to say whether he was disappointed or relieved to find himself alive._

_He could not sense a living person near him – human, elf or kossith. Straining his shoulders against the weight on top of him, he managed to turn his head and catch a glimpse of the source for the qunari voices he'd heard._

_Through clouded eyes he perceived a great bonfire on top of the moonlit, sandy stretch of shore, against the dark shapes of the buildings beyond. Qunari warriors sat and stood around the fire, eating and talking. They did not seem bothered by the dead comrades and enemies they'd dragged down to the beach. Fenris had always envied the qunari for their utter pragmatism; to find solace from useless emotion and attachment, both one's own and that of others... It must be gratifying._

_He did not know whether he wanted to live or die. Yet he moved, out of instinct, rather than choice. The second rule of his existence, one only shadowed by that of protecting his master, was to protect himself. He was a priceless investment; alive or dead, Danarius would want him back. Ending up in the wrong hands would be worse than death._

_When the lyrium activated, pain forced him to hiss through his teeth. His whole body tensed and sweated like in an executioner's rack. But he did not lose consciousness. Not even as he pushed at the corpses that weighed him and, with the aid of his markings, managed to crawl free and roll down to the sandy beach, blacking out only for a few seconds as his weight fell on his broken left arm._

_It was inevitable that a guard would notice the unnatural blue glow and call an alarm. When he pushed himself from the ground, pulsing dark shapes and pinpoints of light swimming in his eyesight, several figures stood up near the bonfire and their broad forms turned toward the beach. Shaking with the effort, he got on his legs and staggered a drunken half-run toward and down the pier. His sword was gone, and there were no weapons to be seen on the ground. No matter; he was in no condition to fight._

_Heavy feet were already pounding down the shore, as he threw himself gracelessly over the stone's edge._

_There was no way he could stay afloat with his broken arm. His armored body hit the black waves like a stone, and quickly sank beneath the surface._

_Water, first warm like an embrace, then suddenly cold, closed over him. For a moment, the yellow moon danced though the erratic black surface above. Then it flickered away, and the eery glow of his brands was the only thing left with him in the silent abyss._

oOoOo

Hawke had visited the natural caves near Sundermount years ago with Merrill. Today, as he entered them with Fenris, Isabela and Varric, they remained mostly unchanged – a maze of stone corridors and chambers, littered with rotting floors, stairs, even doors left behind by long-dead miners and smugglers. Daylight and water sneaked in from the perforated stone above. The side of the mountain had been carved through by eons of rain and the roots of trees.

Yet something was new, and it told of an inhabitant more natural in origin than the Varterral they had dispatched here years ago – although it was clearly just as capable of getting rid of uninvited visitors.

"Very nice," Isabela purred after disabling the last wire that had been hidden under the fine sand that covered the floor of the narrow cave. She wiped sweat from her brows. "I can't even tell where he's hidden the poison darts. Rest assured, lovelies, without me, you'd all be dead by now."

The smell of decay that enveloped them as they pushed deeper into the caves was also something Hawke remembered. An ominous foreboding grew in him as they drew closer and closer to the Varterral's former lair. Shouldn't the stench have disappeared years ago? Hawke found himself wondering if the place was now really only inhabited by some poisonous spiders and – allegedly – the elvhen assassin they were seeking.

"He said he didn't want to endanger our people by asking us to lie for him," the Dalish woman had said. And Hawke believed her. But he did not necessarily believe the man who had spoken to _her_. The farther they got, the more Hawke suspected they would only find deadly traps in these caves - all of which Isabela had so far managed to find and disarm... But even she could make mistakes.

Finally they reached the large central cavern, shot through with veins of quartz and streams of clear water that pooled into a small underground lake. It was a place of strange beauty, with thick green moss and tiny white flowers where light penetrated through the roof of the cavern, and deep, glittering shadows overgrown with small mushrooms of strange shapes and colors.

But the stench... Like something huge had died here, not too long ago. Isabela coughed and Varric, ever the lover of comfort, looked like he might be sick. Even Fenris seemed a bit queasy.

"Shouldn't there be something like... bones, here?" Varric wheezed, looking around. "Or did someone just lug the Varterral away as a souvenir?"

"Maybe we should head back," Hawke said, his throat constricted with nausea. "Find another way through?"

But before they could take more than a few steps in the direction they'd come from, Fenris raised a gauntleted hand. "Wait," he said. And they did, and while the warrior listened, Hawke stole the chance to look at him, to admire with guilty longing the shape of his profile and graceful neck, and the soft white hair shimmering in the shade of the cavern.

Hawke knew better than to question the elf's hearing. Moments passed. But all they could hear was the drip and purl of water.

Finally Fenris shrugged.

"Maybe it was nothing," he said, unconvinced.

Suddenly water dripped from the ceiling, straight on the elf's hair and face. "_Venhedis,_" he muttered in surprise and made to brush it away.

A pebble fell against the steel of his gauntlet, and bounced from it with a small, sharp chime.

They looked at each other, then up. Around them, more rocks, dust and sand started to stream to the floor.

Lodged against the shadows of the roof with its five long legs, the Varterral opened its blood red mouth and hissed – alive, and very much still guarding whatever long gone secrets its ancient elvhen creators had hidden under Sundermount.

oOoOo

It was hard to believe that – if what Merrill told was true – these monsters had really once been created by the fair folk. Hawke supposed that, in its way, the Varterral was graceful and magnificent, although one could not really call it beautiful.

Not that there was much time to assess its visual qualities, while trying to kill it... the second time. The stink, however, was quite possible to appreciate even when fighting.

It was not easy, but they had defeated it once, and did so again. When the great spider-like creature of stone and earth finally collapsed in front of them, smoking and burned, hacked at with blades short and long and pincushioned with Bianca's bolts, Hawke allowed his fire to fizzle, and walked slowly to stand beside Fenris and Isabela. The Varterral twitched a few times, then fell silent. Its single black eye dimmed and its huge legs crashed against the ground like stone.

For some reason – just like years before – the stench had immediately started to lessen. Perhaps it had something to do with whatever fueled the great beast, for no blood flowed in its veins. Thus, although they were all covered in sweat and dust and little cuts from small sharp rocks flying around, they were for once at least not covered in blood.

"Didn't we already kill that ugly thing once?" Isabela wheezed, her hands on knees, still gripping her daggers.

"Perhaps it cannot be killed," Fenris remarked, also still holding his sword. Once again the elf had born the brunt of battle, but, thanks to the stamina his markings bestowed, did not appear much worse for wear.

Varric poked at a severed, lifeless beak of a scaled leg with the toe of his boot, then jumped back as it twitched. "Andraste's ass! What _is _that thing? Wonder how long it'll take for it to knit itself back together?"

Hawke leaned on his staff. "There's no way someone lives down here. Not with _that._ Or the stench."

"Dear Champion, in order to stay alive, one can get used to anything, I assure you," a male, heavily Antivan voice called from somewhere behind and above them.

They spun around, weapons ready. Above their heads, on a shadowed stone ledge, someone lean and not very tall stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. Not far from his fingers, Hawke perceived a curved sabre and two daggers, and he instinctively knew they were not the only weapons the man carried.

The mage's heart skipped a beat as the stranger stepped over the edge of the dangerously high ledge and spun through air, to land in front of them with the grace of a cat. Smoothly he straightened and, in a display of nonchalance, wiped dust from his dark green leather armor.

"Now you I wasn't expecting," the man – an elf of ambiguous origin – purred to Hawke in his Antivan lilt. His voice had a pleasant, resonant undertone that made every word sound strangely intimate. "To dispatch the mighty Varterral so easily! A feat only two people I know of can perform, and one of them is, sadly, beyond the Waking Sea."

The man's full, wide mouth curved in a smile as he bowed to Hawke with studied elegance that would have been more in place at a king's court than in this damp underground cavern.

"I thought I smelled Antivan leather," Isabela said from Hawke's side, her voice dry but not unfriendly as she sheathed her daggers.

The elf stood up and cracked a broad grin that displayed his beautiful white teeth. "Isabela! If it isn't my favorite pirate wench!"

"Shouldn't you be dead by now?"

"I could say the same, my dear. It seems we were both fortunate enough to find powerful friends, no?" The man's striking yellow eyes turned back to Hawke. "Tell me... Is this one as adventurous as our dear Warden?"

The damned rogue dared to laugh. "We could always ask."

"Ah, I do love an audience. But perhaps there are other matters to attend to, first?"

Hawke cleared his throat. "As... interesting as this discussion is, could someone tell me what the hell is going on?"

The elf's smile widened again. Hawke was starting to suspect that it was a weapon in its own right, possibly more deadly than the several blades at the man's hips. "Forgive me. My name is Zevran Arainai, adventurer and occasional assassin."

"He knows that, dummy." Isabela scowled. "Do you really think you could come romping this side of the sea without me hearing about it?"

"Ah. I need to pay more attention to whom I speak at Vigil's Keep. It seems that those old walls have ears, hm?" The elf tapped his own pointed ear. "Ones that can write."

The man was definitely an eyeful. He had the short stature of a Dalish, but the curved tattoo at the left side of his face was no _vallaslin_, and his tanned skin and muscular build hinted at a mixed heritage. Long, flowing hair the color of ripe wheat framed his handsome face. Everything in him appeared warm and friendly, yet - despite the easy manner - Hawke also sensed that the man knew exactly how far they were from him and how many twists of a poisoned dagger it would take to dispatch them.

"You could have helped us, you know," Hawke said.

The elf chuckled. "No, no, my friend. My appearance would just have distracted you. You did marvelously! And the show was so very entertaining."

_And I would have seen how you fight._ _Rob you of an advantage, eh?_

"I've heard about you, Arainai," Varric said. "You helped the Hero of Ferelden stop the Blight." The dwarf bowed. "Varric Tethras. Well met."

The Antivan returned the bow with every bit as much flourish as he'd given Hawke. "At your service, my friend."

Fenris made no attempt to introduce himself. Hawke could almost sense the waves of intense dislike radiating from the Tevinter as he stared at the shorter elf darkly, arms crossed.

Well, at least he had sheathed his sword. That was something.

"I must admit, I was waiting for an assault by the Crows, not the mighty Champion of Kirkwall," Zevran said, unfazed.

"How do you know I'm the Champion?"

"Slayer of Qunari, Deep Roads explorer, and may I say one fine specimen of manhood?" The yellow eyes traveled Hawke's tall frame in a positively Jethann like manner. "You underestimate your fame!"

Hawke felt blood creep into his face. At his right, Isabela chuckled softly. Fenris, on the other hand, looked at the Antivan like at a particularly fat and squirmy worm in his food.

Varric just seemed intrigued, as if already thinking how to describe the assassin in his stories.

"Let me guess: a man named Nuncio has asked you to capture a dangerous killer, yes?" Zevran cocked his head. "What did he say this time? That I killed his wife? Butchered his parents? Sold his children into slavery? Or did he tell you he was a lawman from Antiva, charged with apprehending a ridiculously handsome fugitive?"

"All of that, in fact," Hawke answered. "He also said you were a wanted murderer."

"Oh, indeed I am! But technically I imagine everyone here can rightfully claim that title." The elf's gaze traversed his small audience. "I warn you: Nuncio surely intends to kill you. The Crows do not like loose ends, unlike myself. But you are a man who can clearly handle himself, yes? Why worry? So you can either tie me up, gag me, and then manhandle me... or you can take me to Nuncio, and we'll see what happens. Which will it be, I wonder?"

"Zevran, sweetling." Isabela sighed. "Of course we won't take you to Nuncio."

The elf raised his brows. "Why not? It will be fun!"

"Well, there is that. Hawke?" The Rivaini turned to look at the Champion.

Actually, everybody did. The mage stifled a groan.

"You're very compliant for a fugitive," he said to Zevran, already suspecting that anything he said to the Antivan would be countered with something more or less suggestive.

"Compliant, yes, and very bendy. But truthfully? Nuncio has become a veritable pain in the ass. I had this... surprise set up for him." Zevran gestured toward the seemingly lifeless carcass of the Varterral. "As we can see, the cursed man was not silly enough to fall for it, and now you have robbed me of my little friend. How long it will take for him to recover, I do not know, but I am sure it is longer than either I or Nuncio can wait. Thus, my dear Champion, I find myself completely at your mercy. A very happy predicament, I admit, but only if you decide to keep me around for a day or two."

Fenris actually snorted. "First you lure us into a trap, and now you want our help?"

"Remember how _we_ first met, sweetling?" Isabela crooned. "Zev, my love, this pretty frown here belongs to Fenris. He growls, but doesn't bite... very hard. There, we're all friends, now. Aren't we?" She threw a look at the white-haired elf, who kept staring at the Antivan in a rather threatening manner.

Zevran tilted his head at the Tevinter. "Charmed, serah. I see now that this is a joint venture, not a dictatorship. Very well. Would you at least do me the honor of camping with me tonight, dear friends? It is already late. You can wait until morning to decide whether you want Nuncio to kill poor old me, hm?"

The elf was right – the light that speared the cavern was already failing, and cold shadows had started to crawl free from the nooks and recesses of stone.

Varric grunted. "Let me guess – soft beds, plump waitresses and a dinner with decent beer would be too much to ask."

Zevran had a nice, deep laughter. "No, but I can offer hard tack, rotgut and a shelter from wind and rain. Tempting, no?"

"Well, that's better than half the inns in Lowtown."

Hawke found himself watching in bemused wonder as the pirate, assassin and dwarf walked toward the exit, talking animatedly. It seemed like, somewhere down the line, he had been completely bypassed in the chain of command.

"I should have guessed those three would hit it right off", Hawke muttered, then almost jumped when Fenris moved at his side.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Hawke?" the Tevinter asked in a low voice.

Hawke shrugged, not looking at the elf, yet uncomfortably aware of him. "Do you trust Isabela? She's the one who knows him."

"I wouldn't call it trust, exactly..."

The way the Rivaini walked right next to the elvhen assassin, so close their weapons almost touched – how they looked at each other, and smiled, and certain cadences of their speech, intimate like crossed daggers... It was obvious they shared something more than just friends, something more than casual lovers, even. They seemed a perfect fit. Unlike her and the irritable, touch-phobic ex-slave. Based on how Fenris scowled after the two, the fact had not escaped him, either.

_Is he jealous?_ Hawke still wasn't sure if there was something between Fenris and Isabela - if, indeed, there could be anything there - but suddenly, allowing the rogue to spend quality time with her old flame seemed like a much better idea.

"Oh, don't be such a drag, Fenris. Didn't you hear what he said? It'll be fun. Just like old times." Hawke started after the others. "Come now, it's getting dark and we have our stuff to collect."

He rather felt than heard the Tevinter's wordless grumble as the elf complied and followed them back out of the cavern.

Behind them, the Varterral's great, silent corpse slowly fell into shadow, only to be gone the next morning as if it had never existed.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: I didn't intend to write so much of this Zevran business, but... You know. Sexy elves. *cough*

You might have noticed I've kept the DA:O elf proportions, at least concerning height. I like the new noses, though. I think of Zevran looking like certain renders I've seen on dA, with hair down his back, rather prettier than either of the game versions.

* * *

><p><em>The next time he woke it was to the sound of a crackling fire, and rain, and a woman humming a very old elvhen song under her breath.<em>

_A woman's hands... Hovering close enough to feel their warmth. Almost close enough to ignite the lyrium. The ache in his nerves might have been just the expectation of pain, rather than the real thing._

_She was casting a spell, but which? He could not tell, except that it was healing of some sort. Clearly ineffectual, for he felt very little._

_He cracked his eyes open, turned his head toward the sound of her voice. The song broke, and the woman smiled at him, surprised and pleased, her narrow brown face alight in the soft glow of the fire that filled the dark, small hut around them with aromatic smoke._

_She collected her hands in her lap. "He's awake, Raj," she said in a language he had never heard, yet knew intimately like his own skin._

_As his eyes focused, he saw that she was an elvhen woman – no longer young, but not yet elderly, either. No _vallaslin_ marked her face, just lines of old worry and laughter. It was an unremarkable face, yet one of the most beautiful Fenris had ever seen. For she was a woman of his own race, long-limbed, strong and graceful, with low-pointing ears close to her skull, and gray eyes, and thick, shiny, black hair that fell over her shoulder in a heavy braid. Her clothes were of soft leather and intricately decorated with paint, embroidery and colorful beads._

_A free woman? No slave would ever dare to look at anyone so._

"_Be careful, Shiha," a man's gruff voice said._

_Another face appeared behind hers, paler, almost floating in the dim light. A human, stocky, ugly and strong – and rather more distrustful than her. He was burned by the sun, not naturally brown, with a graying beard and hair that retreated from his forehead. His clothes were much like hers, perhaps made by the same skillful hands._

_Fenris did not call humans _shem_; he had never considered himself one of the elvhen community of his master's household, nor had they invited him to do so. While many other elvhen slaves secretly despised their human masters and considered them inferior, Fenris in his isolation lacked the position of elevated disdain that calling anyone _shem_ required. Even so, he could not suppress a shiver of disgust when the man's large, uncouth hand appeared on her graceful shoulder – it seemed a gesture of ownership._

_Yet she did not seem to mind. She raised her own hand to caress the man's, her gentleness that of someone who knew him through and through._

_Fenris tried to get up and almost blacked out with pain and exhaustion._

"_Shh." The woman shook her head and lifted her slender brown hands again. Fenris realized that there was a bed of furs beneath him, and over him a worn sheet of linen that barely covered his nakedness. He blushed, realizing that these free people must have seen everything – every ugly white scar that marred his slave's body, even the most embarrassing ones, those Danarius had crafted as a sick joke, rather than out of necessity._

_The elvhen woman smiled gently, reading him like the magister read one of his books. "Do not be ashamed, friend. You must rest. There is time to talk, later."_

_He would have liked to object, but lacked the strength. Instead, he just closed his eyes and turned his burning face away from the light._

_The hut was almost intolerably warm._

_Her slender brown hands hovered over his broken arm, not quite making contact – to his relief, for even the thought of what this kindly woman's touch would have done to him felt embarrassing beyond compare. Instinctively he tensed and his heart raced in expectation of agony as waves of healing magic flowed from her. But to his astonishment, there was little pain, just a strange prickling, and the odd, disjointed feeling of the ends of his humerus slowly, very slowly being coaxed into place._

_Danarius did not care to be gentle when he healed. Under his treatment, bones crunched back together with as much force as had broken or dislocated them. But this woman had a knack for shutting down the nerves that should have signaled pain. Fenris had never experienced anything quite like it. It could not be called pleasant, not exactly; but compared to his master's forceful administrations, hers were those of an angel of mercy._

_It was unnecessary. And worse, a waste of mana. Fenris was more than able to bear the pain, and almost told her so. Yet he held his silence. Perhaps she was timid, unable to witness suffering?_

_No... he sensed this woman had seen more death and distress than most people ever would. What moved her to suppress his pain was compassion, not cowardice._

_Such kindness was beyond his knowledge. His throat felt tight with an emotion he could not quite name. And yet she was a stranger. A mage. Dangerous. Clearly in possession of a level of skill that, in Tevinter, would have made her an expensive asset, or even a magister, though elvhen magisters were rare._

_Beyond the walls of tightly weaved straw, his ears picked the sound of softly falling rain, and that of other people talking and laughing and singing in their own tiny huts. Beyond that was the murmur of wet rainforest, endless and mindless, as inhuman as what sang beneath his skin._

_Even now, the lyrium worked with the healer's magic to knit him back together, aching like it always would._

"_How curious," she hummed._

_Gradually Fenris started drifting to what was real sleep, not just the abyss of unconsciousness. Was this also part of her talent? Gently sliding him into the Fade, so his wounds would not resist her skill, as flesh naturally did when subjected to magic?_

"_Sleep, troubled one."_

_And he did, and rested for what seemed like a eternity, his sleep blessedly free of dreams._

oOoOo

Despite what the Antivan said about hard tack, they ended up eating surprisingly well for a night outside.

After they retrieved the backpacks they'd stowed near the cave's entrance, Zevran led them to a goat track beaten into the bushy mountainside. True to his word, it was not a long walk. At some point the man disappeared, only to rejoin them a bit further down with two rabbits under his belt. Apparently he was a competent trapper in more than one sense of the word.

They soon arrived at a sheltered, grassy ledge overlooking a beautiful glade, painted gold by the setting sun. A nearby mountain stream supplied water, and the remainders of a neatly built campfire suggested the place had been used as a campsite for several days. The back of the ledge receded into a small cave, from which the Antivan fetched a sack that turned out to contain Dalish foodstuffs – some of which, an hour or so later, smelled delicious in a pot that stood perched on stones above the now happily dancing flames.

So, instead of hard bread and beef jerky, they were treated to some Antivan rabbit stew, rather spicy for Hawke's tastes, but definitely palatable.

"So, what's the Hero of Ferelden like, Shorty?" Varric asked after the meal.

The last glow of the sun was just leeching from the horizon, as they passed down a pewter flask the Antivan had magicked from his backpack. It contained plain Fereldan spirit, almost too strong to drink, yet pleasing to Hawke in its pungent familiarity. Despite the secluded spot, they still held their weapons close; Sundermount was notorious for its giant spiders and undead, raised from ancient elvhen burial grounds by residual magics that seeped from underground like the fumes of last night's revelry. Fenris especially made a show of meticulously cleaning his Orlesian greatsword.

Zevran arched his eyebrows, amused. "Shorty?"

"Blondie was taken."

"Varric nicknames everybody." Isabela pointed at herself and Fenris. "I'm Rivaini. The tattooed one is Broody."

In spite of his obvious Dalish descent, Zevran was of course a good head and shoulders taller than Varric. Still, he seemed to accept his new name with good grace.

The assassin was sitting directly to the left from Hawke. So close, the touch of his warm yellow eyes made the apostate's skin tingle. "And, pray tell me, what moniker does our esteemed Champion go by?"

"Oh, he's just Hawke." Isabela took a swig from the flask, winced and waved it in the Fereldan's direction. "Well, look at him."

"Yes... I see. Now what do they say about men with large noses? Sadly, I forget."

"All I recall is what they say about people with big mouths," Fenris grumbled from across the fire, making Varric choke a bit on his chewing tobacco.

Zevran eyed the white-haired Tevinter curiously. Fenris pretended to be removing an especially sticky blood stain from his blade. His intense dislike for the assassin formed an almost tangible aura in the air between them.

Hawke took the flask from Isabela and drank deeper than he perhaps should have, considering the container's size, and the spirit's potency.

The assassin leaned back on one arm and propped the other across his bent knee. His every move told of agility that could be applied to many purposes, sinister or not. Hawke noticed black tattoos that sneaked from under his beautiful, well-worn leather armor where it left his upper arms bare. The curve of the tattoos accentuated the groove between his deltoids and biceps. The bronzed skin over those well trained muscles seemed so silky and smooth... Was it tanned all over? Or would the elf have some interesting tan lines..?

"Hero of Ferelden, you ask? My dear Warden - now how should I put it? Beautiful and dangerous, she is. And slightly insane. The same as all the important women in my life." Zevran winked at Isabela.

"I'm starting to remember why I threw you overboard," the Rivaini muttered. "I could never decide whether to drag you into my cabin for some hot and sweaty sex, or kill you with a rusty knife."

Varric leaned forward, intrigued. "So you and her..."

Zevran shrugged. "Perhaps, when we were younger. But the Warden-Commander of Ferelden is not one to dally publicly with disreputable ex-assassins. She is a formidable woman, the Commander of the Grey. And like I said, not a little crazy. But I suspect all people who go about saving the world are bound to be a little wrong in the head, no?"

Hawke grunted. "Good thing we're working on a smaller scale, then."

"Small? Not the word I would use to describe what I've heard of you, dear Champion."

Varric grinned. Isabela snickered openly. Fenris... holstered his very big sword with what was a definitely venomous hiss of steel against steel.

Zevran tried to look innocent. Finally something he was not very good at. "Well, I think of the ogres and dragons and tal-vashoth. Of the Varterral. And a whole company of corrupt mercenaries, if I'm correct. The Winters, was it..? And an Arishok of the Qun, surely, was not a man of small scale, either. You would be surprised how well the list of your adversaries is known in Ferelden, Champion. Or that of your admirers. Even beyond the sea, it is a well-known fact that the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall is _madly_ in love with you."

There was curiosity in Zevran's voice, but very little awe – then again, it was probably hard to impress a man who had helped to kill an arch demon. Hawke could not even imagine the kinds of things the Antivan had seen during the blight. He found himself wondering how long it would take to earn the ex-Crow's respect, to become someone worth more to him than evasive jest; the endless flirting in itself was likely just the way Zevran examined the people around him, rather than a sign of real interest. Or perhaps Antivan cooking was to blame? It was a well-known fact that hot spices unbalanced the humors - something that Hawke suspected to be a factor in his wife's passions and choleric fits, too.

"In love with me? Meredith? So those ball-freezing stares she gives me are her way of saying 'your place or mine?'" Hawke shot a look at Varric, who was busy examining the fat gold bands that encircled his thick fingers.

"Well, she does suffer you to live - why would she, aside from the fact that you are royally tough to kill?"

"Good question. Maybe she _is_ in love with me? Maker, what a thought." The mage feigned a shudder, then took another swill of the foul spirit and handed the flask to the Antivan.

It was almost certainly not an accident how Zevran's warm fingers brushed the hair at the back of his hand. A shiver shot up his arm. Suddenly Hawke felt like someone who hasn't had sex in a very long time.

__Well, at least there's no question of whether __I__ am interested in __him__.__

Hawke frowned and turned away, a bit faster than he should have.

"So, let me get this straight, Shorty," Varric said slowly. "You were Elissa Cousland's lover? The ruthless bitch who burned down Amaranthine and is responsible for killing off more Fereldan nobles than Orlesian pox? I use the word 'bitch' out of respect, you understand. Generally, I am fond of women who know what they want, as long as it doesn't involve beheading me or forcing me to listen to the Dwarven Merchant's Board."

"Beware. You're talking to the man who invented the rumor that I flew to Kirkwall on a dragon," Hawke said.

Zevran laughed. "Do not worry, my friend. The pamphlet-writers in Denerim have already exaggerated my tiny dealings with the Hero of Ferelden beyond all recognition. And they are not nearly as polite as your esteemed dwarven friend. They like call me the Warden-Commander's dog... or her whore. Both of which are true, of course, but the words they use for her are quite unacceptable."

"Don't look so excited, Varric." Isabela's words tinkled with mirth. "I did her, too."

Varric almost gaped. "_What?_ When? Where? And why have I not heard of this?"

The look Fenris stole at Isabela told Hawke this was new information for him, too.

"Varric, sweetling, you know what to do. Just a few small words, and all my secrets shall be laid bare before you."

"Baring things for a price, now?" Zevran smiled sweetly. "My dear Isabela, I though that part of your past was well and truly behind you!"

She threw a stone at him, not even looking away from the dwarf.

"What... No!" Varric waved the flask that had now ended up in his hand. "Devious wench. I shall never betray Bianca's trust!"

"Suit yourself, dwarf. My lips are sealed."

"Bianca..?" Zevran inquired pleasantly and rubbed the spot where Isabela's projectile had hit him in the forehead.

The discussion meandered on, touching many things but revealing little. Eventually Varric produced a pack of cards from somewhere, and the friendly bickering continued while they played, offering Hawke even more opportunity to observe the feint and thrust that went on between the three rogues, Isabela and Zevran especially.

Zevran made light of his past with the Antivan Crows. Yet, from what Isabela had told, Hawke knew that his dealings with them had been brutal. He'd been relentlessly hunted by his fellow assassins for over a decade, first merely for escaping their ranks, then for killing several of his former brothers in arms, including a Guild Master. Hawke knew that Isabela had omitted something very crucial about her mutual past with Zevran – something that involved more than just exotic positions – but whether he would ever hear of it, remained uncertain.

A trained killer banished from his homeland and hunted by his former masters... Now where had he heard _that_ before?

At the opposite side of the fire, Fenris stared at his cards. He made few attempts to join the conversation. Next to the smiling Antivan with his all-natural good looks, the Tevinter elf appeared even more unusual, and most likely knew it. Even so, Hawke tried not to look at him too often. It was too difficult to keep his memories at bay, to forget that he had once, as hard as it was to believe -

No, much easier to rest his eyes on the Antivan, all smiles and so eager to take in everything, even if his easy charm was just a ruse.

__Maker, this is going to be a long night.__

oOoOo

The next night, after a day of travel toward the Wounded Coast, they made camp in a hilly forest close to a river that snaked between the wood-skirted foothills of the Vimmark Mountains.

The day had been uneventful, yet fairly tiresome. What banter they shared had not been unlike friendly sword practice, meant to entertain, but taxing nonetheless – the Antivan especially seemed master of gossip of the highest degree, information picked for its entertaining uselessness. For a man sho spoke so much, he said remarkably little.

True dark had fallen, and orange sparkles danced from the campfire toward a still almost full moon. After supper, Varric had again suggested a round or two of Wicked Grace, to which Isabela and Zevran gave their enthusiastic consent. Even Fenris grumbled an agreement, finally finished with his weapons to the point where continuing to sharpen and clean them would have started to seem ridiculous.

Hawke stood up, feeling light-headed on his feet. "Please," he said and gestured for the others to remain where they were. "I'm just going to the river to clean up."

It was not a lie... Not completely. He was filty and stank with many days of travel and fighting. But dirt was something one learned to tolerate on the road. In truth, he just needed to get away.

"Be careful, Champion," Zevran said. "I met some river bandits when coming through this part two weeks ago."

Isabela made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, he'll just throw a fireball and we'll be right there."

Hawke took his staff and left, trying not to look like he was running from his companions.

Lothering had been situated near the Drakon River and while the great stream itself was too deep and fast to swim, it had a calmer tributary that edged past the village, not far from the Hawke farm. That small river and swimming across it was one of the few things Hawke missed from his childhood home. While Kirkwall had its baths, it did not offer many opportunities for such exercise.

It was perhaps not altogether safe to cross the Sundermount river after dark, but Hawke did it nonetheless, grateful for the cold water that cleared his mind and eased his overwrought senses. After wading back from the water, he sat naked on a rock that stuck from a sandy little beach beneath the overgrown slopes, still dripping water and smoking a pipe of _melleta_ while he gazed over the moonlit river.

The thought of having to return to camp and spend another night near Fenris and Zevran made him shudder. He had not slept very well at all, the night before.

Marcia was everything a man could wish for in a wife. Well, at least when she was not in one of her tempers. She had the type of figure that could bring life to a dead man, and an appetite to match. And Hawke was anything but dead.

And yet he still had these... urges. Ones that prevented him from ever remaining quite faithful to her.

What was it about elves that confused him so? He had never been attracted to a man of his own species. What sort of perversion made his preferences run toward human women and elven men? It made no sense. Like wanting to drink only grape juice and brandy and nothing in between.

He ran his hand through his hair, smoothed down his beard. The moon had shifted visibly on the sky. He would have to get back soon, or the others would start to wonder about his absence.

Suddenly he was jolted from his thoughts by the crack of a dry twig under a soft boot.

"__Melleta__. That stuff kills people, my dear Champion," a heavily accented voice said from above him.

Hawke turned and craned his neck to see Zevran looking down at him from the overhanging bank, smiling and curious - his default state toward most things, it seemed. The elvhen assassin stood poised under a birch, one arm propped against a branch above his head, a picture of easy grace – looking for all the world like he might have been standing there for hours. Had he deliberately chosen a spot where moonlight would catch his long, pale hair and the intricate detail of the leather armor that hugged his figure? Probably. Very little of what the man did seemed accidental.

"Maybe those involved in the trade," the apostate said in want of anything more witty. "I have no problem with it."

"That is what people always say, isn't it, right until they try to quit?" Zevran's teeth flashed in the shadow. "But, as it happens, I suspect you're not so easily affected, my friend? For the same reason you do not get cold, I assume, in that most enjoyable state of undress I've found you in."

All of a sudden very aware of his complete lack of clothes, Hawke was glad for the partial darkness – the moon shone bright enough to reveal most detail, but still, the elf would probably not see the blood gather under his skin. Even so, the mage reached for his breeches, neatly folded on the stone beside him, on top of his other clothes and armor. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of... But it would probably serve him to have at least _some_ clothes on in the Antivan's presence.

Zevran was right, of course. Nights up at the mountains were not exactly optimal for butt-naked prancing. But Hawke could not even remember when he had last felt the effect of ill temperature. The older he got, the less he was bothered by either cold or warm - even at their extremes. He was not sure if it happened to all mages who dealt with the elements. Fortunately he only had to pay a cursory respect to hiding his abilities, these days. Not noticing details such as your clothes being on fire tended to give one away. (He tried to forget __that___ embarrassing _little incident. The wildly exaggerated story of course persisted. Some said he had burst in flames on his own, and that shaking hands with him left burn marks. Rumors, bah... He was more than capable of controlling his own body temperature.)

"What are you doing here?" he heard himself ask. "I thought you'd be busy robbing my poor companions of their hard-earned coin."

Zevran chuckled. "The white-haired one, perhaps. My lovely pirate queen and this Varric character can surely spot any pathetic little trick that I've learned during my years. But, as it happens... You're not the only one feeling all sweaty, hot and dirty, dear Champion."

With that, the elf dropped down to the moonlit beach and calmly started to remove his armor.


	20. Chapter 20

To his mortification, Hawke had to struggle a bit not to put his breeches on backwards. His skin was still damp and the thick cloth felt unpleasantly sticky and coarse against it.

Next to him, Zevran continued to undress, looking over the river. Pieces of armor were discarded one after the other on the moonlit sand. There went his bracers and the baldric with its saber, there the intricately embossed spaulders and cuirass. His slender fingers barely seemed to touch the buckles and clasps; it was as if they flew open on their own. Hawke had never seen anyone undo armor quite so effortlessly. Not even Isabela. It was like... sleight of hand. Surely Hawke had paid through his nose for performances less thoroughly skilled.

__Damn... I'm not ogling, am I? __Hawke realized he was chewing the stem of his pipe hard enough to leave dents.

And that he'd forgotten to finish getting into his breeches.

"I'll head back, then," he croaked and buttoned up. "The others are probably..."

Undisturbed, Zevran dropped the crossed belts that held his daggers. He was now down to an embroidered sleeveless chamois vest, leather breeches and tight buckled boots that reached past his knees. The fitting clothes flattered his finely proportioned muscles, from rounded shoulder to the perfect curve of his ass.

"Would you humor me, Champion, and stay a moment? I would wish a word with you, if you do not mind."

_He wants to... talk?_ Hawke tried to gather his wits. Not that it wasn't pleasant enough to listen to Zevran speak, what with the Antivan lilt that wrapped every word that rolled off his tongue and stroked the listener's ear with what had to be a studied effect.

"From what I've heard, talking to you means potentially talking to some very influential people whose purposes might cross my own."

Zevran gave Hawke a little smile over his shoulder. His hand ghosted over the fastenings of his vest. The garment practically fell away, pooling in a heap on the sand at his feet. "And from what I've heard, Champion, I expected you not to be such a great pussy."

_That's not the voice of someone who just wants to talk._

A tattoo not unlike the one that adorned Zevran's face coiled around his waist from the back and disappeared under the waistband of his breeches. More such tattoos graced the sweep of his shoulders. Strands of soft blond hair curled down his shoulders and back, pale against the tanned skin, next to a leather string that held some sort of an amulet pouch at his throat. Zevran's body was as smooth and hairless as any elf's Hawke had seen. Yet his muscles were... exceptionally well developed, for an elf. And the swell of his breeches in the front suggested that muscles were not the only part where he surpassed the usual proportions of his kind.

Hawke released the tortured stem of his pipe from between his teeth. "Sorry to disappoint. Perhaps I've just finally learned to keep my mouth shut around people like you."

The Antivan arched his brows. Hawke growled, and rubbed his forehead. "Forgive me. I'm not usually such a... I have a lot on my mind. Could we save this for some other time?"

"As you wish."

Zevran looked upon the water, letting moonlight once again limn his fine profile, and started to unbutton his breeches. Hawke's eyes widened and a deep blush heated his face.

"Wait. What now?"

The elf paused for a second and leveled at him a look of curiosity. "This is very fine Antivan leather. I cannot swim in it, my friend."

Hawke realized he'd just made a perfect ass of himself.

To his ears, his laughter sounded like the death throes of someone being lynched by a very incompetent mob. "Ah... yes... forgive me. I'll give you some privacy, then." He stood, turned his back and reached for his shirt, wincing in embarrassment as soon as the elf could not see.

He'd barely gotten one arm into his shirt when a warm hand pressed to the back of his shoulder, almost making him jump.

"Is everything all right? You seem awfully tense, my friend."

Damn, but the man did not make a sound when he moved.

"I'm fine."

"Like a bow strung too tight is what you are. You should really have something done about it." The hand against his back was now moving as if in examination of what the Antivan was referring to.

That touch... so warm and light and yet so strong and blighted _knowing_... Hawke felt a very insistent stirring in his breeches.

_Don't get excited. You're not getting anything tonight._

His traitorous nether parts seemed not of a mind to listen.

"Kirkwall politics. You have to forgive me... I'm not permitted to elaborate."

"Hm."

The hand withdrew. Hawke tried to congratulate himself for sidestepping a gaping hole, instead of just feeling disappointed.

Then he made the mistake of stealing a glance at the shorter man.

Up close, the Antivan was still truly good-looking, with his regular features and thick dark lashes and wide mouth that seemed to be forever smiling. The fact that the top of his head only came level to Hawke's jaw did not seem to bother him overmuch. Like Fenris, he was quite perfectly male, not as androgynous and certainly not as wispy as most elven men Hawke had met. But unlike Fenris he seemed perfectly comfortable in his skin. More so than almost anyone Hawke had ever met. It was rather... refreshing.

At the thought of the Tevinter elf, Hawke felt a guilty expression cross his face. It did not escape the assassin, either.

Zevran made a dismissive, very Antivan gesture that Hawke had seen his wife use as well. "Politics? I do not think so, my friend. At first I thought it was Isabela. After all, my darling pirate has a history of making men unhappy. But somehow I doubt she would turn _you_ down. Not you, my dear Champion. It is, perhaps, the other way around, no?"

Isabela, pining for __him__? What an odd thought.

"I'm a married man, Arainai."

Zevran actually snickered. He retreated out of reach, walking backwards with all the grace of a tightrope walker, and blatantly continued to unbutton his fly. "Please, my Champion. I believe your wife must be a veritable temptress, to have trapped such a fine prize, but surely you would be the only faithful couple in Kirkwall!"

"I am not from Kirkwall," Hawke said, fighting to sound calm. "I am from Ferelden." Trying for composure, he stuck his pipe back in his mouth and continued to pull his shirt on with what seemed like rather too much force.

"Yes... Such a pompous and finicky people, that jealously guard what they cannot own." Zevran shrugged and magicked open more buttons below his waist.

Hawke had... never seen anyone undress quite like that. If you could even call it undressing, rather than a dance that just involved taking off some clothing. With a few smooth tugs, bends and twists, Zevran removed the garment and straightened sinuously, now wearing only his thigh-high boots, the leather amulet, and what was a profoundly lewd little smirk.

Hawke was amazed that his pipe still remained in his mouth.

It was apparently true what they said about Antivan leather – it was __very __soft. How else to explain that Zevran wore no smallclothes under his breeches?

"But your wife is not Fereldan. She's from Antiva, no?" Zevran discarded the removed garment, then lifted his hands to his hips. "A people I know intimately, as it happens. Do you think she waits at home when you travel, hm?"

__I know she doesn't. Not after the first year. The only rules are that we won't embarrass each other, and any child she bears will be mine.__

Zevran cocked his head. In morbid curiosity, Hawke's gaze followed the tasteful tattoo that he'd seen curve round the elf's waist. It reached all the way down to his groin. There, the size of the Antivan's cock hinted that there might have been several reasons for his successful former career with the Antivan Crows.

Hawke's eyes climbed back to Zevran's face. A smug little smile widened the elf's mouth. To his dismay, Hawke realized that probably the most chance decision Zevran had made so far was where to drop his pants. Everything else had been deliberate. The flirting. The crack of a twig under his boot. Definitely coming to this particular spot of beach to strip. Maybe the man had never even intended to go swimming.

Had Hawke been paying for the show, he would have had few qualms about bending Zevran over and fucking him. (Well... perhaps just one qualm, sitting somewhere not that far away. But Hawke wasn't sure whether that qualm cared if he lived or died or contracted a brain-rotting sexual disease.) But that was it – Hawke wasn't paying. He was used to calling the shots, not being lead like a bull with a ring through his nose.

Hawke took a deep breath. He would prove that he did not let his dick do his decisions for him. Even though it now ached so very bad for what stood in front of him.

"I think I should go." Hawke turned away. At least he was now somewhat clothed himself, with his breeches and shirt safely on. It maybe made it slightly less horrible that his voice sounded so weird and strained.

"A pity. It is not every day one gets to meet a real Champion."

"A tragedy, I'm sure," Hawke muttered, propped his pipe on the stone where he'd been sitting, and pulled his belt from the pile of clothes.

"So, no chance of cooling off in the river together? You look like you could use it."

And with that, Hawke's temper finally started to fray. "What's your angle, Antivan?"

"Hundred and ten up, twenty to the left. But seriously? No angle. Just... curiosity."

"For what?"

"What an odd question. Who would not be curious about the Champion of Kirkwall?"

Hawke still mostly felt like an accidental hero – one with chance, more than anything, to thank for his success. Perhaps he just lacked the part of brain which cautioned against rash decisions, and possessed the qualities required to stay alive after them? He loved himself as any fool did, but not without reservation; he had never really understood why people would be interested in _him_, not just what he could do.

"You'd be surprised. But I tire of this game. What do you want?"

"And here I thought it would be obvious by now. I want to seduce you. Is it not working?"

A change of tactics? No matter. Hawke tightened his belt sharply. Now just to bundle his armor under his arm and go...

"Oh, so _that's_ what the sudden lack of clothes was all about."

Zevran chuckled. "You seem a man partial to a direct approach. Do you perhaps not like what you see?"

"I'd like it in a whorehouse well enough. What I don't like is being manipulated."

"Ah. What a frustrating man you are. Your reputation did not include that you would be so... very suspicious." The words were delivered with a little chuckle, yet they also sounded slightly puzzled, as if what Zevran witnessed truly did not match expectation - or perhaps he _was_ really just puzzled, challenged by a riddle that did not agree to be solved.

"My reputation was mostly earned during my years before the Championship, I'm afraid." Hawke reached for his gear.

"Oh? Sad I am to hear that. But..." The Antivan's voice softened ominously. "I think I know who it is. The one who does not want you. The handsome tattooed elf, no? The one you keep staring at, with your cock hard in your pants, when you think no one is looking."

Hawke froze.

"It took me a while, but... I must admit, he is a tricky one. Those strange scars that glow when he fights... It is fascinating. What is he, I wonder? What does it take to capture the fancy of the mighty Champion? Yet he does not seem – receptive to such interest. A colder fish I have rarely seen. Sad, is it not? To have so many people want you, Champion, and the one you want, alas... does not."

Hawke was quite sure that Zevran could easily dodge anything or anyone. So, once again, it must have been a conscious decision that allowed him to grab the ex-Crow by the amulet at his throat and yank him close.

For a second, the Antivan stood a little awkwardly in the shadow of the larger man, the smile wiped from his pretty face, for what seemed like the first time ever.

"You are quite the little fox, aren't you?" Hawke hissed.

Something sharp flashed in Zevran's eyes, too soon gone to read. His gaze dropped to the arm that was holding him, then climbed back to the Fereldan's face. His mouth curled in what might have been his first genuine smile since they'd met.

Hawke looked down to see the glint of a small knife, before a practiced flick of wrist made it disappear somewhere inside the top of Zevran's boot.

"I knew you would be a manhandler, my dear Champion," the Antivan purred.

Hawke leaned down and crushed his mouth over the elf's.

To his satisfaction, Zevran stiffened in surprise. Perhaps he'd not really expected this to happen, after all. But it only took a moment for him to lean into the kiss that held in it the sparkly tang of __melleta__, and return it, if you could really return something that was not a caress but an attempt to humiliate.

Hawke did not intend to please, and indeed it must have hurt, the way he forced the Antivan to yield, as once again his impulses got the better of him. His intent was to unbalance the man, then push him away and tell that this would be all he'd get; a simple plan - childish, perhaps, but satisfyingly direct.

And even so, just a few moments later, Hawke found that his hand was caressing the long neck under the silky curtain of hair, and that his mouth sought to inflict something else than pain. He did not push aside the hands that came to rest at his waist, nor pull back from the lips that opened under his, or bar the way from the wily tongue that sought his own. For the effect that tongue had on Hawke, there might have been some weird Antivan aphrodisiac laced on it.

Trying to beat a master seducer in his own game? _Brilliant_ idea.

Breathing with some difficulty, Hawke lifted his head, and the elf measured his defeat with half-closed eyes. Zevran's lips might have shown the bruise, but it was Hawke's self respect that bore the wound.

"You have passion, my Champion, but you lack finesse."

"Undoubtedly something you know all about?"

"Oh, yes." Zevran smiled, and slid his hands slowly forward, to the small of Hawke's back. This brought the two of them gradually closer, until the Antivan very lightly pressed against the larger man. To his embarrassment Hawke shivered as something brushed against his by now definitely visible erection.

"I was very good at making my marks... comfortable."

"Considerate... should one think of the end result."

Zevran chuckled throatily.

The skin under Hawke's fingers, beneath the soft cascade of hair, was every bit as silky and smooth as he'd suspected. Witnessing in detached horror his own lack of judgment, he allowed his hand to slide downward, mesmerized by the swell and flex of muscle under that warm, velvet surface.

"A death can be large or small," the Antivan said, his breath tickling the stubble at Hawke's throat.

Zevran's left hand traced a path beneath Hawke's arm and softly rubbed the linen over his chest, scraping its texture against hair, nipple and now undeniably sweaty skin, a maddening little contrast with the soft tongue that tickled Hawke's heated skin.

"So what was it that you wanted to talk about?" Hawke asked, and listened in disbelief to his own unstable voice, as the hand reached lower and lower.

Zevran laughed softly, and did not answer.

Hawke drew a hissing breath when fingers wrapped his erection through his breeches and stroked down its length. It twitched and grew harder, as if reaching for the hand that gave it momentary relief.

"I see that the rumors about you have not been greatly exaggerated." A chuckle, a brush of fingers and a tug at Hawke's belt and the fall of his breeches, and suddenly cool night air caressed his burning skin.

It was not a mutual thing so much as Zevran kissing him, this time, sucking at his lower lip, then leading his tongue into a dance that left him wanting to fuck the man so bad it hurt. Unbelievably, the elf even managed to smell enticing – expensive leather and some foreign spice that Hawke could not name, heavy, almost sweet... and the scent of Zevran's sweat under it was like a promise.

What the Antivan was doing to him, down below... Surely a mere hand should not have felt like that. Not for anyone with more experience than a country boy. Yet Hawke was already fighting a foolish urge to rut into those wicked fingers.

And damned if he wasn't now thinking of his own come trickling down the grooves of the Antivan's bronzed skin...

He threw his shirt off and pulled the laughing faun against him. Why had it felt like such a bad idea to have sex with this man? He had quite forgotten.

* * *

><p>The discussion had dwindled to nothing. Fenris noticed that even Isabela seemed to lose her spirit as Hawke and the Antivan failed to return to the camp. Their continued absence should have tempted at least a few salacious jokes from the Rivaini, but instead it made her strangely silent.<p>

After six months Fenris still not could boast knowing her very well, but he knew she wasn't the type to be jealous. Might she have been annoyed that the men had not invited her along?

The elf himself felt rather irritated. The ache in his markings was particularly bad tonight. And the Antivan's pointless chatter and innuendo grated on his nerves like few things could - even the memory of it, after the man himself was no longer around to provide it.

While Fenris acknowledged that a whore's approach to a cruel and selfish existence was not without its logic, he did not find it worthy of much respect. Even Isabela seemed a paragon of integrity compared to Arainai, who appeared to value the people around him according to how much entertainment, profit or utility they were able to provide.

"Bugger it," Isabela said at last and threw her cards to the ground. "I'm bored. And tired. I'm going to sleep." She stormed off in search of her things.

Fenris folded his cards more civilly and stood, brushing grass and sand from his gear. "I need to visit the bushes."

Varric grunted as he started to gather the cards."Broody, your euphemisms are improving. Next step toward civilization will be not to make us think you have bodily functions at all."

There had been a time when, after being taught to speak of his basic needs explicitly or have them ignored, Fenris had found that outside of a slave's very thwarted perspective, it was considered a sign of insanity if he referred to things such as bowel movements with their proper names. The memory still stung.

"I'm sure elf crap is prettier than anything and smells like roses but I still don't want to hear about it or think about it," Varric continued, then pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes tight against some inner vision. "Andraste's ass, now I did it myself. Maybe that Varterral poisoned my brain after all."

Fenris had grown very still. "I am going to do us both a favor, and pretend that this discussion did not happen," he said, turned on his heels and strode into the underbrush that covered the slope.

To his credit, he _did_ intend to just see to his needs and return. What morbid impulse made him turn toward the river instead of back to the camp, he'd never quite understand.

Perhaps he had spent a little too much time in Isabela's company?

Or perhaps he did it because he _could_.

It was easy enough to track the men to the river. Not the Antivan – not in the dark, even with all the moonlight. The sneaky bastard was far too good. But Hawke had mowed through the forest with all the grace of a rhinoceros. And it was more than likely that these were the tracks Arainai had followed, as well.

Another thing Fenris knew how to do was move silently. Not only had some of his less benign tasks in Danarius' service required it; the magister had also disciplined him when he made his presence unduly known, until he learned to avoid any unnecessary sound when moving about.

Thus he succeeded in reaching a vantage point to the river without being noticed.

He was not completely certain what he expected. Certainly not anything he had not witnessed in excess before, in his master's service. Orgies were a favorite pastime among Tevinter nobility, and Danarius was no exception. Fenris was fairly convinced of his ability to witness most varieties of sexuality – including ones that involved death and torture – without batting an eye.

Nothing particularly spectacular was happening, yet. But _something_ was definitely going on.

He scratched an itching brand of lyrium at his jaw, then made himself stop. The ache in his markings was getting worse. And he could not quite lie to himself that such pain had nothing to do with his emotional state. Easier than most, for his mind to redirect unwanted sentiment to somatic reaction, to convert mental distress into a physical one. It had taken him years to recognize the predisposition, and to acknowledge it for what it was.

He still sometimes hoped he hadn't learned about that particular connection. It was far easier to tolerate pain than to examine his own motivations and seek from his shallow, rootless, often distasteful memories the reason for his anxiety.

Why had he come? To prove himself that Hawke was just a man, weak and vulnerable to temptation? There were no victims here, despite one of the participants being a trained assassin.

Not that it was very obvious, right now – never had Zevran looked more like the whore he so happily admitted to being, wearing nothing but a pair of tall boots. In Tevinter, only a sex slave would have had such long and soft hair, and it did not take much imagination to add the required paint and oil, even though the man had a warrior's build, not that of a soft cock slut. Fenris had some experience with the Crows – after all they worked in Tevinter, too, and were frequently hired in the power struggle between the magisters. Fenris knew that Zevran had to be a very effective killer, but right now it seemed that the Antivan's skills were of an entirely different bent.

Annoyed by such nonsensical observations, Fenris shook his head.

Why was the collar of his jerkin suddenly feeling so hellishly tight?

His irritation was turning into ire. Surely Hawke had not made those strangled and almost desperate sounds when...

Suddenly Arainai opened his eyes. For a moment, the Tevinter was certain they looked straight at him. Then they skimmed over his hiding place, unseeing – evidently it had been just a coincidence.

* * *

><p><em><em>Well, this turned out to be... intriguing.<em>_

Until now it had all been just an opportunity for an interesting fuck, but now... Now, the twisted little play had truly piqued his interest.

Zevran took a deep breath and controlled his own arousal. He was rarely overcome with passion – sad, truly, but in his past, it had often been the difference between a beautifully executed job and a nasty cock-up with murdered innocents whether he got too excited, and the instinct remained.

The Champion, however, remained a satisfyingly volatile mess, all roaming hands and curious heat. In slightly different circumstances, Zevran would not have hesitated to take his pleasure of the situation. A pity, really, that he now had to step back from his own gratification, especially after what was two days of teasing words and dark looks – but alas, it was what it was. If push came to shove, at least he would be in possession of the wits required to defend himself from a certain Orlesian greatsword.

"I would like nothing more than to make this last all night, _mi amor,_" he murmured in the Champion's ear. "But perhaps this is not the time, or the place, for a prolonged encounter?"

Whether the human could any longer understand such long sentences was uncertain. He certainly did not attempt an answer. But Zevran knew it never hurt to speak the truth, especially when there was a lie buried somewhere within.

The Antivan knew exactly how aroused the Champion was – which was very, but then again, he _was_ a master of the art. He also knew about a dozen ways to quickly bring that arousal to its peak. Just abandoning the poor man like this would have been... cruel. And while Zevran Arainai could perhaps not be called a gentle man, he was not cruel, either, was he?

The Warden would have roared in laughter. __You're the cruelest person I've ever met, Zev,__ she would have said. __Your cruelty is just of a very specific kind.__ And then she would have heartily agreed to whatever evil plan he was about to set in motion.

The Champion seemed remarkably unsteady on his feet, and Zevran persuaded the rather oversized human to take a few steps back and sit on the conveniently placed boulder, making sure nothing would be concealed by a poorly chosen angle. Smiling wickedly he kissed the man one last time and, coaxing him to lean back on his arms, settled between his thighs. Hands resting on the Champion's hips, he started to slide down the large, heaving body, kissing the magnificently haired chest and lingering his wet tongue for a moment at a nipple. After a satisfactory shudder and groan from his victim he drew a long wet downward path near the trail of hair that seemed to point where he should go, feeling how the Champion's breath quickly grew shallower with expectation. By the time he was on his knees and close to his goal, the human was spewing precum on Zevran's thighs between his own. One large, blunt-fingered hand grasped Zevran's head behind the left ear, then curled in his hair as he smirked near the man's erection. With unexpected firmness, the hand pulled his face against it.

Zevran felt his eyes flash but quickly mastered his temper. He was not submissive by nature, but out of necessity, this was a game he also knew how to play. He gave the Champion a lascivious, slow upward lick that had the man grunting like someone that had forgotten how to speak.

_Not a begger, then. I wonder, if I teased him long enough, would he just try to take me by force? He almost seems the type._

As Zevran continued to pleasure the Champion with his tongue, his eyes briefly touched the underbrush of the forest. __Can he see this?__ He was not altogether sure, but it wouldn't hurt to put on a bit of a performance.

He kissed the tip of the cock before him and placed it between his lips, wondering at the peculiar but not unpleasant smoky taste of what beaded on his tongue. The Champion was very far on the larger side of his male partners, but surely nothing he could not manage. Zevran breathed deep through his nose and swallowed the man to the hilt, making it look as easy as he could.

Simple as the trick was, it was rewarded with some very strangled groans and swearing. The reaction seemed to verify Zevran's suspicion that for a man of the Champion's size, it was not an everyday experience to meet someone who could take him quite so completely. In his worked-up state, the man quite forgot his manners and pulled painfully at Zevran's hair. The elf made a mental note to revenge every strand that left his scalp.

_My, you are a fierce one. I wonder how mad I could drive you if I had all the time I wanted._ Few pleasures surpassed that of being with a lovely woman well versed in the art of love-making, but there was also something to be said about driving a very dominant man so far with lust that he would to do anything Zevran wished, up to and including an unhurried and thorough fuck in the arse.

Alas, what he'd said was true – this was not really the time, or the place. After just a couple of minutes of letting the man fuck him in the face Zevran withdrew a bit and did a trick with his tongue that was almost certain to get even a statue to spill immediately. And true enough, the Champion shuddered as if in astonishment and gave a harsh cry, and came like a fountain. Remembering he had an audience to please, Zevran pulled away, one hand around the cock that bucked like a wild animal in his hand, and allowed the man to spill freely, not flinching from what landed on his face and painted threads over his shoulder.

"M-maker's breath!" Hawke panted after his shudders subsided, a stunned testimony to Zevran's skills.

The Antivan stood up and wiped a glob of come from near his mouth, a smug grin on his lips as he turned toward the man spying on them from the bank.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>__Fasta vass..."__

Fenris stepped back, retreating to the shadows without a sound.

Was he glowing? He was almost certain he wasn't glowing. The pain, it did not feel like... He raised his arms to check them. They were trembling.

And there they were, the cursed brands, shimmering, very faintly, but in the darkness it would be visible like a beacon.

In a very unpleasant and confusing state of arousal, rage and embarrassment Fenris retreated back to the camp, observing in detached horror the pounding of his own heart. The first watch was his, and Isabela and Varric retired as soon as he was there, to his relief not expecting him to say much.

He huddled near the edge of light, staring into the black shadows of the forest that loomed around the small clearing, wrapped in his cloak, sword close by.

Soon enough, Hawke returned. Wordlessly the mage threw his things in a heap, kicked open his bedroll and threw himself on it. Even without looking, Fenris could tell he was upset. He kept turning about, and once or twice, the Tevinter could have sworn he heard the man mutter an oath under his breath.

Then the Antivan arrived, clean and good-smelling, his hair damp from a wash, for all the world perfectly composed and just... blighted perfect. Fenris turned his head finally, to spy from the corner of his eye the assassin walking about, settling his things for the night. Finally the Antivan caught him looking and winked, even white teeth flashing in the dim light of the now low-burning fire. Without as much as an expression, Fenris turned away, to stare into the silent woods.

__Surprise he isn't whistling. Bastard...__

Finally the insufferable creature settled down and promptly fell asleep. Fenris kept watch until it was time to wake up Varric. Tired from all the useless, aimless thoughts he'd kept stirring in his head, the elf hoped to get some rest. But he slept fitfully, waking to the smallest noise. Hawke did not fare any better; actually, when Fenris saw his unusually pale face in the morning, he was quite certain that the mage had not slept at all.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, Zevran happened. That spying part is a terrible cliche I know, but I can offer no excuse._


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: __If you're interested in an explicit Hawke/Isabela/Zevran spinoff for this story, head over to my profile and find a link to AO3._

_I actually have a beta now! Thank you ms45, for your comments and corrections. *bows* Any remaining errors are naturally mine._

_By the way, I know that one line - you'll know which one - is originally by Fenris. I re-attributed it to Varric just because it fit him as well, and I needed Fenris to have a different reaction to Zevran in this fic._

* * *

><p>It took half a minute of concentration to force down his fire, and extinguish the last flickering tongue of flame.<p>

_Not good._

And it had been a fairly small fight, with just Nuncio and his men to take care of. No maleficar, no demons, no dragons, no ancient guardians of elven treasure. Just ordinary men who screamed and panicked and burned when the flames hit them, the lucky ones combusting from inside out so fast that they perhaps did not even feel much pain before they died.

He would have to practice his control... again.

Not far from Hawke, Nuncio's lifeless corpse was lying on the dry slope of the road, face down, dark tendrils of blood seeping from his wounds into packed, yellow dust. Sword and dagger still in hand, Zevran walked up to the Crow and with a push of his foot, hoisted him onto his back.

Nuncio stared at the sky with glassy eyes, his sandy face frozen in a last grimace of surprise and dismay. The elf holstered his weapons and knelt to pull a throwing knife from his breast.

"Poor, stupid Nuncio. Why these people insist on being able to kill people like you and my Elissa, I will never know."

Hawke had finally had a chance to see Zevran fight, and he had to admit that the Antivan was a man of many talents. While Isabela instilled her dagger-play with a savage flair that involved intimidating stunts such as jumping from objects and even her enemies' shoulders, Zevran fought with a low style, one quite similar to Nuncio's, with no wasted moves, speed and surprise as much his weapons as the poisoned blades. In its brutal efficiency his fighting reminded Hawke of Fenris, who could also distract, disarm and dispatch a man in less than a few seconds of blurry swordplay, sometimes finishing it with a quick phase-punch if the foolish enemy got too close.

Incidentally, the Tevinter elf was walking toward them, now, sword still in hand, its bloodied blade resting against his shoulder. His markings glowed softly, almost sensuously, like they always did after a fight. Spatters of blood covered him from head to toe, begriming his spiky armor and overgrown white hair, and lent him a gloriously barbaric air. It would have been impossible to tell by anyone who didn't know him, but to Hawke it was obvious that he was in great spirits.

"I enjoyed that," Fenris declared. "It is refreshing to battle an enemy who doesn't spit magic, poison or Fade creatures upon us."

Zevran straightened and turned to the Tevinter elf, smiling in a manner Hawke could not for the life of him interpret. "Happy to be of service, my glowing friend. You fight well. Who taught you, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

To Hawke's surprise, Fenris deigned to answer. "Many people – but I had to improvise to make any of it useful. Do you imagine anyone could have taught me to use this?" He raised his right arm, which was completely covered in gore, and allowed a fizzle of power to travel through his markings. Through the blood, they glowed red, rather than blue. Like always, it was beautiful and unnerving to watch.

"Ah. No. A very unique and effective weapon, that trick of yours. But what skills you have with the blade are also to be commended, my friend. I wish we had an opportunity to spar. It would be very interesting, no? At least, without the part where you relieve someone of the burden of their internal organs."

"But that, _my friend,_ is the best part." Fenris grinned wolfishly. His teeth actually flashed. But his eyes remained cold.

Zevran smirked. "Only amateurs think that putting it in is better than what comes before. And I admit a certain fondness for my heart where it is."

"You heart? I was thinking of tearing out something else altogether."

"Ooh, shivery!" Isabela murmured from behind Hawke's back, where she was either cleaning her daggers or cleaning off the deceased Crows.

For a moment Hawke was not certain something horrible would not happen between the two elves. Then Zevran's face split in a wide smile, and he threw his head back and laughed. "_You_ are a wicked one! I like it. I truly hope to meet you again, serah, and have a chance to see how it goes. And you, my dear Champion," he continued, turning to Hawke. "You, I wish to _never_ have to fight. It seems... extremely painful. But now you must excuse me, for I have a matter to attend to – one that has been postponed by this unfortunate business far too much, already. I thank you for your assistance with this unfortunate complication. It was a delight to see such a powerful mage in action. It was nothing short of art, truly."

Hawke grasped for something to say. _It has been my pleasure..?_ In the end, he just inclined his head in what he hoped was a dignified manner.

"Hey!" Isabela sputtered, walking up to them. "That's it? You're just – leaving?"

Again, Hawke sensed an exchange of things unsaid. Then Zevran's smile softened a bit. "Of course not, _mi vida._ Where are my manners? Can you ever forgive me?"

"I'm not sure. Try harder." She threw her daggers in their sheaths and crossed her arms beneath her corseted breasts, waiting. Zevran sighed and performed a flawless court bow.

"Would you perhaps do this lowly worm the honor of accompanying it, dear Isabela? I believe I have a use for your special talents."

She rolled her eyes. "Why, Zevran, how nice of you to ask. Of course I will help you in your worthless endeavors."

"And what a joy it is! My heart swells with pleasure." Somehow the Antivan managed to sound like he wasn't even joking. Then again, deadpanning ridiculous compliments was probably something a Crow had to learn right after mastering which end of a dagger to stick into people.

During the last few days, Hawke had sometimes wondered how he would have done as a Crow. The way Zevran spoke of it, the career of an assassin sounded almost irresistibly simple - at least compared to the juggling act of being a Champion. But things were rarely as easy as they sounded when described by a master of the trade, were they?

"So you're going with him, now?" Hawke threw Isabela a questioning look.

"Why should_ you _be the only one on this trip who gets to fuck the best lay I've ever met?"

Varric guffawed. Fenris shifted uneasily. Why did he appear uncomfortable with her choice of words? It was just Isabela being... Isabela. Again Hawke could only guess at the boundaries of their current relationship.

Zevran chuckled. "You flatter me too much, my darling."

"Ha! Piece of truth if I ever heard one."

Quick farewells were exchanged, with a lot more warmth than had been in the air when they first met. Hawke felt somewhat apprehensive about clasping hands with Zevran, but when they did, only a small twist of the elf's mouth told that he knew why Hawke's face suddenly grew just a tiny bit more rosy.

"Oh, and, lest I forget," Zevran said and threw him a small pouch, then winked. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Champion."

After watching the two rogues disappear behind the sloping twists of the road, Hawke opened the pouch and, as he expected, saw a fair bit of gold glint within. _And here I thought I had received my payment already_. Probably better to share the reward amongst his companions; he was not sure he wanted to hang onto anything that had the Antivan's far too crafty touch on it.

"That girl has interesting taste," Varric said, once Zevran and Isabela were out of even an elf's hearing range. "Are we sure he was part of a guild of... assassins?"

Fenris just spat on the bloodied road, and finally holstered his sword.

* * *

><p><em>He drifted back to the waking, mind still weighed by what seemed like unending, black sleep. Gradually he became aware of the ache in his half-healed arm, of the soft furs under his back; of warm air laden with moisture, almost too thick to breathe, and of layers and layers of smells that wrapped him like the embrace of someone long forgotten.<em>

_The jungle was now fairly silent beyond the hut's walls, its cacophony replaced by sounds of children playing while their mothers sang and worked. How he knew those sounds was a mystery, yet he did; the dull thud of women pounding grains, the scrape of stone against a stretched hide, the click of wooden sticks in a children's game. Patterns etched into the back of his mind, in which color and shape now flowed, giving them form._

_He cracked his eyes open, to spy what appeared to be the very scantily clad backside of a skinny, light-brown young woman kneeling by his bed. She held up the edge of his worn sheet, and peered with obvious interest inside._

_A little monkey sat perched on her shoulder and scratched its arse. But when he moved, it immediately looked back, and screeched a warning, wide-eyed with fear._

_When he reached out his hand, she was already gone. Pain wrecked him as he placed weight on his recently broken arm and forced his cracked ribs to bend as he moved. With pitiful drunken slowness, compared to his usual speed, he crouched on the bed, his face twisted in a snarl._

_She had leaped across the dead remains of the fire, to squat on the other side in a battle-ready pose almost identical to his. The small monkey hung onto her shoulder, its eyes wide, whimpering and cackling with fear._

_For a moment, all was perfectly still. He watched her, trying to hide his pain and weakness. She stared back and her luminous green eyes gleamed in the half shadow, speared through by light from a smoke hole in the hut's roof._

_Finally - perhaps correctly assessing that in his current condition, he was not much of a threat to her - she sat down and crossed her legs. The monkey gave a displeased screech and wrapped its arms around her neck, to stare at him with its teeth locked in a hostile grimace._

_Fenris was used to people shrinking from him in fear, like they might shrink back from a rabid wolf. But this strange young woman seemed to assess him with nothing but undisguised interest, and just a bit of natural wariness that told she was not completely stupid._

_It was very odd, for once to be the one at a loss. She was almost naked, slender but strong, with tiny, high breasts adorned only by long necklaces of beads and feathers. Tiny, tasseled leather briefs covered her nether parts. Otherwise she wore only a wealth of bracelets and anklets of all kinds. A simple but serviceable bow was slung to her back, and a long knife could be seen at her hip. Long black hair fell in thick braids down both sides of her light-brown, unmarked face._

_Her ears were small and flat. But Fenris had seen enough half-elves to recognize her as such._

_In Tevinter, only slaves went naked. But this girl wore her skin as proudly as any Tevinter lady would have worn her artistically draped linen and silk and wealth of gold and pearls._

_Sitting back, he drew the sheet into his lap to cover his nakedness. No use playing the part of a proud wolf, now. She had seen his weakness, and had not taken advantage of it; obviously she was not his enemy, at least for this moment._

"_You speak our language, white-hair?" she asked finally, her voice confident and curious._

"..._Yes." The word came to him slowly; speaking in this tongue was like wading through sticky mud._

_She pointed at herself. "I am Kari, daughter of Shiha and Raj, a hunter of Riverbend Village." Her chin lifted, and her mouth quirked in a little proud smile. "In not many years, I will be the chief hunter," she added and nodded gravely, as if it mattered to him not only who she was, but who she was going to be._

_The monkey around her neck sniffed loudly and stuck its tongue out at Fenris._

_Fenris was at a loss. He was very good at assessing the threat strangers posed to his master, but knew nothing of interpreting their reactions toward himself. People felt disgust for him, or fear, and sometimes perverse interest; he was accustomed to little else._

_At least she did not appear to expect deference. In fact, she seemed to wait for him to respond freely. How peculiar._

_He tried to sit a little straighter, despite the discomfort._

"_My name is Fenris," he said, painfully aware of his brusque air. Danarius had never required manners out of him, just blind respect for himself, and disregard, enmity or intimidating stares toward all others. "I am... a warrior," he added after a moment, when she seemed to expect more. "I know not of my family. My..." He hesitated. There was no word for 'master' or 'owner' that he could recall, in this language. "My chief is Danarius, a mage of Tevinter."_

_Finally she seemed satisfied, and released him from the burden of her curiosity. He felt actual relief. Why did it feel so important to make a good impression on this woman? He rarely cared what anyone thought of him._

"_I wanted to see if it was true," she said. "What father told. That you have vallaslin on your dick." She made a face. "Who puts vallaslin on their dick! Didn't it hurt?"_

_He realized she was younger than he'd thought. Maybe eighteen? Surely not twenty, yet. It was so hard to tell, with half-elves._

"_It did," he answered. He knew he had no right to feel embarrassed at the knowledge she'd seen his private parts. Even after all these years, why did it aggravate him when free people took liberties upon his body... looking at it, touching it? It was useless. He did not own his body any more than he owned his sword, or his armor._

_Where was his armor, by the way..?_

_Well, clearly these people did not intend to kill or imprison him. Maybe... Maybe they had no clue how valuable he was, or how dangerous to them?_

"_I am the one who saved you, Fenris of Tevinter," the girl said when he did not volunteer more. "I saw the battle from the trees. You fought very well, for a devil-mage's pawn. The city warriors are usually so... slow and predictable. You are not."_

_Fenris shifted on his bed, disturbed. Why did she compliment him? Did she want something? Or... It was almost unthinkable, but... did she not know what he was? She demeaned them both, complimenting him so openly._

_But how to set her straight, when the language itself lacked words required to explain his situation?_

_She did not seem to notice his embarrassment. Or perhaps she did not care._

"_I waited until nightfall, in the forest, to spy on the kossith. When you appeared and fell to the sea, I swam and pulled you back to shore, to a place the kossith would not see or reach. I am very strong, and the best swimmer in the village." She threw her long braids behind her shoulders. "Well, my worthless friends helped, but not much. In each case, when the kossith were gone, I brought you to mother. She's our best healer. You were in a bad shape but she patched you up in no time." She grinned, with strong white teeth. "So, you see... you owe your life to me, now, Fenris of Tevinter." Her gaze lingered on his marked body._

_He had no idea how she planned to collect his life debt, but whatever she had in mind, it would probably involve something horrible. It was not the first time Fenris had met a pervert who felt drawn to his scars and disgusting appearance._

"_I thank you for my life, Kari, daughter of Shiha and Raj," he said and bowed his head, more to avoid her eyes than as a gesture of gratitude._

"_Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you have pain?" Something in her imperious manner suggested that despite her scant years, she already considered herself the master of this dwelling. "Or other kind of discomfort?"_

_He realized he _was_ both hungry and thirsty. If he intended to recover and flee, he'd have to nourish himself. Also, his bladder was painfully full. All of these things he was more than used to tolerating... unfortunately the need to pee was strong enough that once he thought of it, it became almost impossible to think of anything else._

"_I need food and drink," he said. "And I have to piss."_

_She smiled, as if pleased by his simple admission of sharing the same needs as everyone else. "I will send my brother over. Then you should rest more, stranger. You don't look so good. I will ask mother to come by later."_

_Fluidly she pushed herself to her knees. The little, furry black beast around her neck cackled in annoyance, and chattered some gibberish that sounded ominously like speech._

_For a moment more her green eyes lingered on him, as if memorizing the patterns of white in his skin, darker than hers. Fenris could only imagine what it was like to touch someone without either pain or mind-numbing bliss, but for a moment, he thought it might have felt something like her gaze... so open and unguarded, almost as if he hadn't been a slave at all. And he could not deny she was very beautiful, but – she was a free woman. Even had intercourse between them been possible, he was not allowed to want her. He did not know how to look on her as a woman, any more than he knew how to stop her from looking at him._

"_Listen, white-hair," she said, suddenly not so quite so very young and bubbly any more. "I do not know you, and I do not know what has transformed you so. Evil magic, I assume. Do not think we are stupid. I saw you fight for the devil-mage. Had the kossith not been there, I might have been your enemy, that day. But by the color of your skin and the language you speak, you are one of us. Because of this, Fenris of no-family, you are welcome in my home, for as long as you wish. Do not bring ill to my village; for we would not wish it upon you, either."_

_She left the hut, with the monkey on her shoulder making faces at him behind her back._

_Not long after, a brown, black-haired half-elf boy of perhaps twelve - as scantily clothed as she had been - brought a wooden tray filled with flatbread, cooked vegetables and roasted meat, a flask of water, and a bowl of fermented goat's milk. He also brought a tightly lidded clay container for him to piss in. After placing them on the earthen floor, he left, with only a curious look or two over his shoulder._

_After relieving himself Fenris fell upon the food, ravenous despite the weariness that by now made him tremble and sway._

_He rarely cared of the quality of his fare, as long as it nourished him, but he had to admit that right now, everything tasted marvelous. Disturbingly so. Was it just hunger? Or was it that everything felt so... familiar? He did not remember ever eating food like this; yet even the strange, sharp flavor of the fermented milk was not only palatable, but delicious, in a way that told he had not only tasted it before, but been used to it._

_His hunger sated, he fell back to his bed and slept again, for hours upon hours. After some time he was briefly roused to the vague knowledge of the elven healer in work at his broken bones, but quickly drifted back into the Fade. Not once did wake to check his surroundings like he would have done every two hours when sleeping by his master's door._

_Why this place calmed him, he did not know. Probably it was just a result of exhaustion and confusion?_

_But in his heart it was not so easy to lie why it felt like he had returned to a home he could not remember._

* * *

><p>A week after the fight with Nuncio, Fenris stepped out of an armor shop in Hightown, to have what seemed like a misplaced Lowtown urchin run straight into him.<p>

Two seconds later the kid was suspended in the air by his neck.

"A little young to work this part of the market, hm?"

The boy kicked and flailed and struggled like a wildcat. He was human, and small – Fenris hadn't even realized he was holding the little runt completely off the ground. The kid lacked shoes, and his threadbare knickers had been bought for a remarkably smaller child. His coat, on the other hand, was much too big.

"Lemme go, dirty knife-ear!" the little thief squealed.

Fenris just frowned. Slowly the flailing and squirming stopped.

Furious eyes flamed up at the elf from a small, dirty face. Snot was running from the boy's nose.

"One of Athenril's? Coterie?"

"Eat shit, freak! I'm no thief!"

Fenris suppressed a twitch of his mouth. "I see. What are you, then? Except a filthy child with a very dirty mouth in need of a washing."

"I'm a messenger! Been lookin' for you the whole day! Lemme down, you..!"

The boy seemed angry still, but Fenris knew his sentiment masked a great deal of fear. He considered for a few seconds, then decided it probably served no purpose to make the little shit soil what was most likely his only pair of pants. Carefully, he placed his burden back on the street. Immediately the kid straightened his over-sized coat and tried to regain some dignity.

"All right, you're a messenger. So what's the message?"

With dirty fingers, the boy picked something from his breast pocket. "From a lady. Asks for a reply." He hesitated for a second, then proffered the message.

For a second, Fenris stared at the piece of paper like it might have bitten his hand off if he touched it. Also, he seriously hoped that the boy hadn't just wiped his snotty nose with the same hand that now held the piece of folded paper.

_A message? From a lady?_

Frowning, Fenris snatched the note from the boy, and opened it. It contained a few lines of round-bellied squiggles with long tails that seemed to mate with each other furiously all over the paper.

_Damn... Free script. I can't read this!_

"Can you read well?" he asked slowly.

When the boy nodded, Fenris handed the message back, and crossed his arms.

"I'll throw in a coin for it."

This seemed to win the boy's favor somewhat, and he fell to the painfully long task of spelling out the note. Obviously the handwriting was not of the easier sort, for it took two whole minutes for the kid to decipher it. "It – it says, 'Please Meet Me in _The Viscount's Crown_ Tomorrow Noon. Send Your Answer with this Boy. Lady Marica.'"

_Well, that's something new._ While Fenris was notorious enough to sometimes attract direct job proposals, he was more used to receiving horrified stares than invitations from Hightown skirts. Especially invitations into classy Hightown taverns that would probably have the guards swoop down on him if he as much as glanced through a window.

This was going to be interesting.

The kid obviously expected to be tipped next to nothing for his work. His sour face underwent an astonishing transformation when Fenris tossed him some of the silver he'd received as a change from the armorer.

He watched the boy run off much happier than they'd met.

It was probably not worth it to follow the runt. If he had anything in the way of street smarts – and he had to, considering he was still alive at his age – he knew better than to take a straight route to his employer. Following him would probably involve delving into a nasty sewer or two. And right now going to the sewers involved a very real danger of running into Anders. The abomination had managed to talk Hawke into hunting some revolting spell ingredients from beneath street level; they'd hardly met for a week, now. (Varric had told all about it in the Hanged Man the night before, going into loving detail about the smells and sights of Kirkwall's sewage tunnels. Fenris remembered saying something to the effect that he had no interest in the sewers, and even less so in the abomination's disgusting experiments. Later he'd regretted his hostility. He had no reason to act uncivilly toward the dwarf, who'd never been anything but courteous toward him. Fortunately Varric still seemed to find the shortcomings of his temperament merely amusing.)

Fenris suddenly notice a pair of men standing by, obviously on their way to visit the armorer, but too afraid to approach while he lingered at the door. He turned on his heels and stalked off, for once too deep in thought to mind the ill looks he attracted.

For a moment while walking, he held the message what he hoped was right side up in his hand. But even though he now knew what the squiggles meant, it was still impossible for him to see any meaning in them, the way he now - thanks to Isabela's efforts - saw words painstakingly appear from previously undecipherable lines of typeface.

'Lady Marica.' That sounded like someone he should have recognized. Why didn't he?

"_Fasta vass..."_

Fenris crushed the piece of paper in his hand and threw it in the gutter. Like many former illiterates, he was possessed of an almost eidetic memory, and had no patience for scatter-mindedness, above all in himself. It actually worried him that he was not immediately able to make the connection between a name and a face.

For all Fenris knew, reading and writing softened the brain – too much knowledge held out of it, too little in. Take Hawke, for instance, always scrambling for detail, always thinking too much, when he should have just _known_...

Or... What if age was finally catching up on him? How old was he, anyway? Fenris tried to count, first in his mind, then discreetly with his fingers. Finally he groaned in exasperation and threw his hand in the air, scaring some passers-by to cross the street. Counting at least was something he'd always been decent at... Now even numbers escaped his understanding.

Finally coming to the conclusion that he was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five and thus not yet old enough to suffer the effects of senility, Fenris decided that his brain was getting mushy from reading too many romances, and resolved to ask for more manly reading material from Varric.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Sorry about taking longer than planned, again. I've been writing a lot — just had problems figuring out the order things should happen. Consequently I have quite a lot of material ready for the next chapters, and they should come sooner.

This takes place after Expected Circumstances. I'm too lazy to tie that into this story, just know that it happened, in case you've been reading it.

Thank you for every review, fav, alert and just reading — I really appreciate all the support, even if I don't answer all reviews.

* * *

><p>"One more thing before you leave, Champion."<p>

Eyes fixed on the mage standing in front of her desk, Knight-Commander Meredith extended her hand to her assistant. The tranquil gave her a small, ominously familiar pamphlet. Meredith threw it on the table, on top of several official-looking memos and letters.

Hawke glanced at the crinkled, stained, cheaply printed copy of Anders's manifesto. It looked like it had been in someone's pocket when they died.

He did not feign surprise she did not seem to expect. Keeping his expression carefully bland, he returned his eyes to the Knight-Commander's stony face.

"There is a dangerous apostate on the loose in Kirkwall", she said. "He is behind this piece of fiction. I believe he is also involved in a covenant of blood mages dedicated to destroying the Order. Naturally I will not allow this. I will not allow abominations to run free in my city, to wreak havoc and chaos -"

"And purple prose?" Hawke suggested.

An almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes was the only indication that his flippancy might have annoyed her. "So you are familiar with this... farce?"

"The topic happens to be of personal interest. What would you have me do, Knight-Commander?"

"Find whoever wrote this, Champion. Find him, and kill him."

Hawke watched her. She watched him back with cold distaste.

"It might take time," Hawke said in his most disinterested tone, and pretended to pick lint from the lapel of his stylish black coat. "He has avoided your agents for years. Why should I do any better?"

"You have a tendency to succeed where others have failed. You have proved yourself useful beyond my expectations. You will _not_ fail."

"I am flattered by your faith in me. Were it not that it sounded so much like a threat."

Her blue eyes narrowed. Suddenly the room felt several degrees colder. "Do not take me for a fool, Champion. I will not suffer insubordination. Not from anyone." _Especially not you._ "I expect you to eradicate this... pustule. Succeed, and many things will be forgiven. Should you fail, on the other hand..." The words trailed off, her silent stare an ominous promise.

"Do we understand each other?"

_Clear as day._ Hawke looked at the wrinkled pamphlet on the table.

"How long do I have?"

Her eyes narrowed at this attempt at bargaining.

"I will expect to hear of progress very soon. Do not try my patience. It has already been worn very thin."

"Knight-Commander."

"Remember what happened to your mother. These maleficarum would unleash a similar fate upon us all."

Hawke stiffened, and did not trust himself to speak. After all these years, every time Meredith brought up his mother, it never failed to enrage him.

"You are dismissed."

He bowed and left, careful not to walk conspicuously fast.

Even after turning to the hallway, her chilling eyes still followed him. He felt them in his back down the wide corridor and out through the great iron gate, down to the Gallows courtyard where sunlight baked the ancient stone, as soulless as the tranquils' eyes watching him from the shadows of the Templar Hall's great portico.

Only when the heat had burned away Meredith's frigid gaze, Hawke allowed himself to wonder.

_How much does she know?_

For years Meredith had been looking for a reason to get rid of him. Had she finally found it?

Somehow the Champion of Kirkwall had always managed to avoid choosing sides. Anders called it cowardice. Hawke called it survival. Even as he discreetly helped to smuggle circle mages out of the Gallows, he had killed enough maleficars to fill a graveyard - a gruesome memorial to his mother, to ease the guilt that had never left him. Only the Maker knew how many of the mages he killed were the same ones he'd once freed.

And Meredith had suffered him to live. Just because she could not afford to squash him. Years had passed, and sometimes Hawke had even imagined himself a man with a future - a veteran of many wars, with a right to a family and home and growing old in peace, surrounded by friends.

In his heart he had always known it would not last. Not in this city. Or this age. Tension was building in Kirkwall, pressure in a too tightly lidded kettle, and when the war broke, Hawke knew he would be pulled into it, like a leaf into a storm.

He had no one but himself to blame for building his house of cards on the edge of a precipice. Beneath, the abyss waited.

o o o

"_Is that not uncomfortably warm?" the elven healer asked when Fenris appeared from the hut in his armor._

_He sat cross-legged next to her on the beaten ground, beneath a sagging sun-screen woven of broad, long leaves. She was sewing, fast little stitches, back and forth. Fenris knew her hands would never be empty. A woman in such a village would always be making something, whether it was food or clothing, perhaps with an infant sleeping on her breasts while she worked._

_He felt sharply his own uselessness. It had driven him out of the hut, although he was still tired and in pain. Danarius would have had him on his feet a long time ago, working even as he almost fainted with the effort. He felt... guilty and twitchy, just lying there, attracted by his unfamiliar idleness._

"_I am used to it," he answered truthfully. He had long ago become accustomed to wearing his armor in all conditions._

_Almost immediately after he appeared, children had started to gather around them. Fenris eyed them warily, unsettled by their stares and whispers. They did not try to approach, for which he was grateful. He knew they were not frightened of the kindly healer; it was him that kept them out of arm's reach._

_The adults were curious, too, just in a more circumspect manner. He knew as much from the way they glanced at him while they walked by or pretended to concentrate on their tasks._

"_How is your arm?"_

_Fenris stole a look at the plain, brown elven woman, once again wondering about her kindness to him. He couldn't tell whether it was worse that she appeared genuinely concerned, than if she'd just been interested in the success of her own handiwork._

_She wore a beaded leather dress that covered her breasts, stomach and thighs. Only young people seemed to go naked, here. Fenris was not sure he would have been able to look at her, otherwise. Even now it felt easier to stare at the ground before him, or at his own gauntleted hands._

"_I am fine." He inclined his head, self-conscious. "I thank you."_

_She would never know how difficult it was for him to pronounce those foreign words. Does a dog thank its master when it is fed or allowed to rest?_

"_Will you allow me?" She laid her sewing on her lap, and raised her hand toward him. He flinched. The reaction was as involuntary as it was embarrassing._

"_I will not touch you," she said. "I only want to make sure the bone is setting correctly."_

_Fenris was certain even the toddlers snickered at his timidity. Face burning, he braced himself to sit still while she passed her hand over his arm, a finger's breadth from his skin. His markings tingled with the small flow of magic from her to him, and back._

_Her small hand passed to his shoulder, now. He could feel its warm presence at his back through the armor, moving down toward his waist, then returning up the other side, all the way to his neck. He stifled a shiver, sensing she would respect his wish to not be touched, yet unable to convince his body of it. Danarius had not cared about his reactions. His skin had learned to expect the unwelcome intrusions and blinding flashes of sensation._

_Why did she mutter in disapproval? Had he done something wrong?_

_She withdrew her hand, to his relief._

"_You have bad things, inside you," she said. "Bad healing. Ugly, twisted scars. Do these old wounds give you much pain?"_

"_Sometimes." He was not surprised to hear his master's offhanded healing methods might have been to blame for some of his gradually increasing aches. Danarius was, at best, an impatient healer, more interested in creating something new - or destroying it - than fixing something old._

"_If you'd like, I can take a look at your scars. It will not be pleasant, however. To fix an ill healed wound, one must open it. But you will be in less pain, after."_

_Fenris shook his head. "It is not necessary."_

_She frowned. "Why would you think so?"_

"_It is just pain. What does it matter?"_

_She clearly had trouble understanding this simple truth. "Pain is not necessary. Why should you live it?"_

"_Perhaps it makes me stronger."_

_Now she actually seemed horrified. "Stronger? Who taught you such a thing? I have seen pain eat away men's souls, make them no better than animals!"_

_For a while he sat in silence, watching the life of the jungle village unfold around them - women and men laughing and singing and talking even as they worked. The children still stared, open-mouthed and eager like little monkeys, but not unfriendly._

_And perhaps it was the odd lack of hostility that enabled him to cross another unthinkable boundary, and actually ask a question._

"_Is this... Is this why you would not have me feel pain, when you heal me?"_

_Again, she had no idea how hard it had been for him to speak. She answered as if there had been nothing odd in his hesitant words. "Yes. Pain inhibits healing. Living flesh resists outside influence. When the body suffers, it resists harder." She sighed. "I can feel that the one who healed your old wounds did not care. Your flesh fought him, and became twisted. Like a child who is made to obey with punishment rather than love, it has grown wrong. I can help you, if you wish. Will you consider it?"_

"_I will... think on what you have said."_

"_Thank you."_

_Why would _she_ thank _him?

_Suddenly the healer looked up. "Kari!"_

_A peal of children's laughter and a monkey's irreverent cackle heralded the arrival of the village's future first hunter. She stepped under the sun-screen and nodded at them, almost naked, just like before, and like before, measured Fenris with her warm gaze. The children jumped up, clung to her bracelet-decorated arms and screeched in joy._

_Standing straight in broad daylight, the half-elf girl was even more beautiful than she'd appeared in the dim hut - slim, strong and graceful, with smooth, light brown skin, pert little breasts and black braids long enough to nearly reach her waist._

"_So ugly, that thing you conceal yourself with," she said to Fenris when the little brats had calmed down enough to be heard over. "I do not understand why you would cover yourself so. Wear your skin and look like a man, white-hair."_

"_We do what we are used to," he said, when she seemed to expect a reply._

"_At least grow your hair. You look like an ape. A big, painted, white-haired ape. Maybe you should live in the jungle with other apes. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"_

_The children screamed in laughter, apparently delighted that she had the courage to mock the frightening foreigner. The monkey on her shoulder giggled and jumped up and down in excitement._

_Fenris had no idea what she'd said that had been so funny. Even Shiha had trouble suppressing a little smile. Did he really look so strange to them? He resisted the urge to run his hand over his hair, shorn close to his skull. Danarius had insisted on keeping it very short._

"_Kari, be polite," the girl's mother reproached._

"_Why? He's a _savvath_. He should look like one."_

"_He has grown among strangers. He has his own customs. You must respect them."_

"_They're very silly customs."_

"_That's not for you to judge. Do you think your father's customs silly, too?"_

_She made a face that told this was an old argument._

"_Do you know where my weapon is?" Fenris forced himself to ask, half because he needed to know, half out of wanting to veer the conversation away from his hateful appearance._

_The first time he'd stepped out of the hut, with a worn sheet twisted around him as a sort of a toga, he had immediately noticed that the villagers had distributed his gear among themselves. The ways they had worn pieces of his armor had been... very inventive. After some urgent discussion with Kari, the girl had agreed to retrieve his equipment - a task she had succeeded in admirably, although not without some heavy bartering and even a few quarrels. But even after she'd led a group of warriors to check the destroyed port, he'd not recovered his sword._

"_Lost, white-hair," she answered. "Taken by kossith when they left, most likely."_

_It was hard to hide his disappointment. As bad as it was to be here, separated from Danarius, the loss of his weapon felt even worse. For years he'd spent every hour of the day - and night - with his sword next to him. To misplace it was like being severed of a limb._

"_I'll give you my old axe and bow," the girl said graciously. "You'll learn to use _savvath_ weapons."_

"_Very kind of you." He would not be here long enough for her to teach him anything. As soon as he was strong enough, he'd make his escape._

_She smirked. "Maybe in time you will admit that all our ways are better than yours, white ape."_

_After conversing with her mother about everyday things such as dividing her latest catch with the relatives and fixing an old bow for her cousin, the young hunter gave Fenris a last, lingering look and left, with the little monkey glued to her like a weird, handsy, hairy baby. Some of the giggling children were still hanging from her arms._

"_My daughter likes you," Shiha said. Oddly it almost sounded as if she didn't mind._

_Fenris felt his face burn. "I do not understand her," he muttered._

_The elvhen healer watched him carefully, then picked up her work and continued to stitch together leather soft enough to sew without an awl. A tiny smile played on her lips._

"_We live too close to ourselves," she said. "Sometimes a stranger will see what we cannot."_

_He had no idea what she was talking about, but was not brave enough to ask._

o o o

That night Fenris returned to his manor in the Estates to find that there were two guards posted at the door.

The men weren't wearing Kirkwall guard armor, just some generic gear without house insignia. Clearly someone's private bravos. They seemed a bit nervous, maybe aware of who squatted in the place, and of his nasty reputation.

Confronting the men - or, Maker forbid, assaulting them - would have served little purpose. Fortunately, for someone who knew the building well enough, it was easy to get inside through other means. Fenris pulled the hood of his long coat over his head to conceal his lambent hair and headed for a dark alley nearby. Under the cover of darkness he climbed the neighboring house, finding easy purchase with his bare feet and strong fingers from the structures of the stone wall.

From the roof it was only a matter of balancing against the wind on the steep surface and avoiding the numerous rotten spots and loose tiles to reach a small dormer on top of his own house. He'd used it to enter the manor a few times before, when for a reason or another he'd wanted to avoid being seen.

However, this time the window was already open.

Frowning, Fenris wriggled his way through. Without a sound he dropped to the dusty, dark servants' room below.

Still as a mouse the Tevinter made his way downstairs, careful to peek behind every corner. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen nor smelled. Apparently whoever had posted the guards at the door had not yet tried to come inside. In the moonlight sifting through shattered windows and open holes in the roof Fenris could see that none of his traps had been sprung. Even the shriveled corpse on the main hall floor - now little more than a skeleton in old Carta armor - was untouched.

In eerie silence he made his way past the final stretch of tiled floor, and peered inside his room.

A figure wrapped in a hooded cloak occupied a chair at his table, silhouetted by moonlight from the window. Instead of the seat, the trespasser was sitting on the back of the chair, one foot perched against its arm and another on the table. As if bored, he twirled a knife in his hand, making easy work of each flick of wrist and spin of glinting blade.

On the table Fenris saw his books and correspondence. The mess was his own; he could not say if it had been disturbed. But the letters were just lying there, wide open. It would have been easy to steal a look. For once Fenris cursed his disorganized living habits. Perhaps he should start paying more attention to the fact that he was, indeed, living in a borrowed mansion full of holes big enough for a thief crawl through.

If he still lived in this house come day or week, that was.

Fenris stole into his room, concealed by shadows and his dark, hooded coat. Whoever occupied it, gave no evidence of hearing. Silent on his bare feet the Tevinter glided over the floor, and the very moment before reaching his target, allowed his markings to sizzle to life.

Suddenly the cloaked figure snatched his spinning knife from air and threw it sideways. Only lyrium-heightened instinct saved Fenris from having it lodged in him. A swing of his gauntleted arm deflected the blade with a metallic twang. But before he could retaliate, the chair was kicked forward, and when the rickety piece of furniture shattered against his shoulder, he actually lost his balance, and had to control the fall and wheel back to his feet.

"_Kaffar..."_

The trespasser was fast. But either he wasn't fast enough, or stalled, for he wasted the chance to draw his weapons and take the initiative. Fenris ran and lunged, with markings flashing through the cloth of his coat. Down they went, tumbling to the floor in a flurry of dark cloth and limbs, and wrestled a few blurred seconds.

It ended with Fenris on top, with his left hand on the stranger's throat and his right hand raised near his head, humming with deadly energy. There was a ugly slice of pain where his bare palm connected with the stranger's skin, but he knew he could tolerate it for the few seconds that were needed.

If he'd wanted the trespasser dead, it would have happened already. But dispatching foes before identifying them rarely served a purpose. Blatant display of his powers usually intimidated opponents enough to question them; this one did not seem meek, but at least he stopped struggling. Fenris opened his mouth to growl an enquiry that would be half question, half threat.

Then he smelled Antivan leather, and the words died in his throat.

o o o

Zevran Arainai stared into a pair of seething green eyes above his own. The fearsomely strong claws on his throat did not completely cut out his air, but they could not be called particularly gentle, either.

However, it was the raised, steel-clad fist that looked particularly unfriendly, especially now that it burned with the evil blue magic Zevran had seen rip out men's hearts and crush their brains inside their heads.

He had not expected a warm welcome, but this was a bit ridiculous, wasn't it?

"Good evening," he wheezed, and tried to grin. It was a bit hard, because the hand around his throat tightened immediately. The look the Tevinter gave him almost flayed the skin from his face. A pity, considering it was a face that had served Zevran well. Usually people looked at him with more... admiration, even the hostile ones.

For a second Zevran wondered if he'd be forced to do something drastic with the dagger he was holding against the man's midsection.

Then the gauntleted hand relented, and the Antivan could breathe again.

"What the Fade are _you_ doing here?" the white-haired elf rumbled in his amazing deep voice, alive with a sharp, focused rage.

"Just a friendly visit." Zevran's throat was still constricted enough for the words to come out a bit strained. "Do you treat all your guests... to such hospitality?"

"Only ones who sneak in through a window and rifle through my possessions!"

"The front door was... occupied. Technically... we are both trespassing, no?"

"This is my home!"

For some reason, the hand on his throat was starting to shake. And was he seeing things, or did the Tevinter... perspire?

"If you would prefer people not to just walk here... you should maybe block the gaping holes," Zevran wheezed.

Something was definitely wrong. The man's pupils were contracting, and his jade-green irises were glazing over.

"_Vishante kaffas!"_

The way the hand suddenly pulled away from Zevran's neck reminded him of one leaving a hot stove - strange, considering how long it had enjoyed its stay on his delicate skin.

The Antivan pushed himself to his elbows. He resisted an urge to cough and rub his bruised neck, and settled for a discreet clearing of his throat instead.

The white-haired elf was straddling his hips, now. A very nice development for a situation that had been dangerously close to bloodshed — yet Zevran's attention was stolen by how the white-haired elf opened and closed his fist in obvious pain. The strange tattoos were still shimmering, although their nasty glow quickly faded. The unsettling humming sound had faded as well.

_Interesting._

Naturally the change of position also notified the Tevinter to the fact that Zevran had been holding a dagger against his stomach. The green eyes widened a bit, then narrowed.

"Not as incompetent as I thought," the warrior rumbled, his physical discomfort obviously subsiding.

"_Gracias,"_ Zevran purred. "Enjoying yourself up there, hm?"

When the Tevinter just frowned at his words, Zevran performed a couple of mock thrusts against his arse. The man blushed and practically flew off of him.

The Antivan rolled to his feet and sheathed his blade. For a while the two of them just eyed each other, separated by an arm's length of dusty air, Zevran with his head tilted up, the Tevinter down.

"My, my. You are very tall for an elf," Zevran said.

It was true. The warrior was more than half a head taller than him. But that was typical for Seheron elves. It was rare to see them outside of their native isle, even in the North. So far South, this Fenris was undoubtedly the only one of his kind. Pity, since his race consisted of some of the nicest looking people Zevran had seen — and this one was especially striking. Surely the color of his hair wasn't natural, especially with the black eyebrows? Yet it was hard to imagine the uptight bastard bleaching his fur. Indeed, never had Zevran seen a man with his appearance and nature in such a contrapose.

"And you are very short," the Tevinter rumbled down at him, obviously irritated by such useless observations.

"Ah, that is true - bless my Dalish whore of a mother."

"So loose morals are also a staple in your family?"

Zevran tilted his head, intrigued by the man's blatant enmity. "Yes, just like charm. Whereas you, my friend, seem to be oddly lacking. Or is it just me?"

Fenris crossed his arms. "Why are you still in Kirkwall? Shouldn't you be on your way to Amaranthine and your Grey Warden?"

"I find myself in the middle of... unfinished business."

"Not yet bored of putting it out for Hawke, in other words?"

"Ah, so." Zevran walked to the nearby table and lightly hopped to sit cross-legged on the spot not completely covered by junk. "It is hard to tire of someone with such... assets."

It had taken some convincing on Isabela's part, but when the Rivaini set her mind to something, there was little she could not accomplish. Thus a beautiful coming together of great minds and bodies had been arranged. Zevran had found himself strangely incapable of forgetting it, or not hoping it would happen again.

Inquiries of a less physical nature had revealed that currently the Champion held more influence over this powder-keg of a city than the resident Grand Cleric. Very impressive, for a mage, in a place known for its nasty Templars. It must have taken some very clever maneuvering, as well as a lot of mettle. It did not seem like the Knight-Commander was in love with the man, though, like the bards across the Waking Sea avowed. Zevran had seen the woman a few times, and a colder bitch he'd never laid eyes on.

Vague horror ghosted over the Tevinter's handsome face at the mention of Hawke's endowments. "Spare me the details."

"I would assume you do not need them. I was under the impression you know the Champion thoroughly, already."

What few doubts he'd had about Hawke's feelings for his Tevinter companion were wiped away by the sudden widening of the warrior's eyes — quickly controlled, but easy for someone like Zevran notice.

"Ah. So it is as I thought," he purred, and leaned forward.

It took just a couple of seconds for Fenris to realize his mistake. He flushed again. Then anger wiped away his embarrassment. "You know nothing, whore."

The words were a mere growl through bared teeth. Zevran knew what the name 'Fenris' stood for, and indeed it seemed very well chosen.

"All I am saying is, we have more in common than you might think."

"I have _nothing_ in common with _you_."

"No?" Zevran cocked his head. Truly, there had to be something more behind the man's hostility than mere dislike. "We are both handsome fugitives, hunted by our former masters — running from one adventure to another. And we are both interested in the Champion, for our own reasons. I fancy things that are dangerous and powerful. You... You have a much higher stake invested in him, I understand."

"I work for him. Surely the concept is not above your ability to grasp."

Zevran rubbed his chin. "Hm. Yes. Yet I know of this... magister complication of yours. It is very peculiar that the man who can protect you from such a powerful adversary also happens to be madly infatuated with you."

Again, that flashing of the eyes. Zevran pressed on.

"Curious, no? I wonder how you keep him wrapped around your finger. One would assume it would require a lot of sweaty sex. But I understand nothing of the sort is happening between you two. No, it is something else that keeps him in your leash. Do you even like him? Or is he just a means to an end? Oh, the lengths we go to keep our freedom..." He shook his head.

_Ah, if looks could kill..._ By now Zevran was convinced he'd been correct. It was not just chance infatuation on the Champion's part.

"What else has Isabela told you?" the Tevinter growled.

"Please, do not kill my dear Isabela. She is the picture of discretion, as comes to you." Which was true. Isabela had only imparted a few useless inconsequentialities about her little wolf. Whatever had passed between his lover and this Tevinter madman, the Rivaini held him in an exceptionally high esteem.

"I will not do anything to Isabela," Fenris said. "I just want to know if I have to kill _you_."

"Ah. It must be the looks," Zevran crooned.

"What?"

Zevran was starting to believe that all the man's expressions involved glowering of some sort.

"The thing the Champion sees in you. We have already established it cannot be your charm. So it must be your looks. And who can fault him? You are quite the spectacle, my friend."

He could practically hear the Tevinter grinding his teeth. "One last time. _Why are you here?_"

Zevran flashed teeth. "To assess my competition, or course."

"I am not your competition, filthy _culus!_"

"Well, that much is obvious, by now." Zevran's eyes sharpened. He shot a look at the hand Fenris had been holding against his throat - the one he had clenched for a few seconds in agony, after. "Since, if I interpreted the situation accurately, you cannot even touch anyone without pain. Am I correct?"

The man froze. "You said Isabela hasn't told you anything!"

"She hasn't. You did, just now." Zevran sighed. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry."

"Keep your pity."

"It is not pity. It is horror. I would rather die than suffer such a fate."

The Tevinter actually spat on the floor. Zevran raised his eyebrows. Why such bitter hostility? Could it be... jealousy?

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't throw you out of the window," Fenris said.

Zevran smiled. "I'll give you two. First of all, it would make Isabela sad. Secondly..." he stood up on the table, hands on hips - "you're too slow to catch me."

The Tevinter started toward him. Zevran jumped over him, and landed softly behind his back.

The man spun around.

"I thought you are supposed to be a bodyguard. How did you keep your master alive with such poor reflexes?"

"I have had enough of this conversation." Fenris's right arm flashed blue light.

From the corner of his eye, Zevran noticed a massive, carved cabinet, taller than a Qunari. He sidled toward it. "Now that I think of it, I've heard these magisters keep body slaves, too. What if this story of you being a bodyguard is just a story? Maybe your master used you in other ways, instead? Maybe we have even more in common than I thought —"

An actual growl of rage, now.

_Bulls-eye._

Zevran barely managed to swing himself upon the cabinet from the Tevinter's path. Where he'd been standing, Fenris's glowing arm went through the wooden door; the hard, thick paneling shattered around it, and the man staggered backwards with a stunned look.

Zevran coughed at the cloud of dust stirred by his move.

"Luxurious accommodations for a former slave," he wheezed. "You should hire some help, my friend."

The Tevinter's eyes flamed up at him. "Come down here, you coward, and let us test that famous luck of yours. You will not be the first Crow I kill."

Zevran grinned. Straightening, he stuck his thumbs in his armpits and flapped his elbows. "Maybe I will just fly away?"

"Let us see you soar, then."

"Ah, I am in no hurry. The view is so much better from up here." Zevran rotated his head, then shook it. "You're really not suited for the ownership of this place. Such messy habits. Anyone could walk in and read your letters... or steal the money you have hidden under that tile over there. And all those romances... what would they think! 'The Knight-Captain and the Captured Heiress', my, my... Who would ever have thought such a stiff prick to have a soft core?"

"_Venhedis,"_ Fenris growled from between his teeth.

Zevran simpered. "Now that I think of it, I feel like a princess in her tower, up here. Shall you save me, oh handsome knight? Then again, maybe you're the fire-breathing dragon, in this story."

"Come down and I'll make sure you'll be the princess in fact, not only in this fantasy of yours."

"Such things you say, good knight!"

"Not like you need it anyway, when you spread your legs to Hawke."

Zevran winked. "I will think of those words the next time I have my cock up his arse."

Flashing deadly light again, the Tevinter elf stepped forward, evidently resolved to destroy what remained of his closet just to get to Zevran.

The Antivan leaped. Rolling nimbly across the floor toward the door, he stopped on the threshold, and flourished his exit with a bow and a sweep of his cloak.

"Ah, it has been every bit as fun as I assumed. But now you must excuse me, as I - oh, my -"

Seeing the warrior charge with murder in his eyes, Zevran danced back, spun, and launched himself down from the railing. Laughing on his way, he sped across the hall, and sidestepped the man's clumsy attempts at traps. Once on the other side, he again leaped and grabbed the edge of the opposing balcony, and swung himself up. With a light step against the cornice, he vaulted over the banister.

Turning back, Zevran saw the Tevinter elf stand in front of his room across the hall, satisfyingly stupefied by his masterful and athletic escape.

Ah. Such a pity. Why did the good ones always choose so poorly? Was it a curse of too high ambition, to select one they could not have? First his Elissa, who still pined after the King of Ferelden, the man that hated her guts... And now the Champion, in love with this complete mess of a person. Oh, well.

"I will give your regards to Isabela, my good friend," he yelled and headed for the balcony that overlooked the front door.

"Wait, you fool -!"

Laughing, Zevran opened the door, ran, and jumped.

The startled guards had barely stopped wetting their pants, when the assassin had already disappeared in the shadows, silent as a whisper on his lovely Antivan boots.

o o o

Fenris heard the front door being rattled. He retreated to his room, and looked wildly around.

"Bloody maniac..!"

It was not the first time he'd been in such a situation - but never before had he had to run from a place that contained too many possessions to just keep in a sack and toss over his shoulder if he needed to run.

What does one leave in a burning house..?

A yowl of pain from the foyer, now. Well, at least his traps still worked. It had seemed uncertain, the way the cursed Antivan had sprinted through them like so much air. Unfortunately, it sounded like there were more than just two men coming, so his traps would not be enough to keep them at bay. Evidently the goons had alerted some nearby guards to join them in clearing the house.

Fenris grabbed his letters from the table and stuffed them in the first bag he could find. Toeing aside a loose floor tile, he snatched what remained of Hawke's Deep Roads payment. Almost as an afterthought, he also took his little copy of _The Book of Shartan_.

The bag felt pitifully light on his shoulder, as he went to open the window. _Just like old times, eh?_

The window complained against its old, rusty hinges. A cold wind invaded the room, billowing the curtains, tossing in air words Fenris had scribbled on yellowed parchment scavenged from the Tevinter merchant's supplies.

Well, they were all bound to be misspelled, anyhow.

Promising himself he'd wring the Antivan's neck if it was the last thing he did, Fenris sat on the moonlit sill and considered the five-meter jump down. Finally, upon hearing armored boots clatter up the stairs, he gave himself a push, and vanished into the night.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: My dear old dog has been ill and I was too depressed to write until she started doing better with new medication._

_Thank you again for all the support! Thank you also for my betas ms45 and elenilote. ___The next chapter is in beta already, and I'll publish it next weekend latest.__

* * *

><p>Whoever considered it a good idea to invite an elf to <em>The Viscount's Crown<em>, either lived a life completely detached from reality, or had a peculiar sense of humor. Based on what little Fenris knew about privileged Hightown noblewomen — namely, that they giggled and simpered a lot, took afternoon walks in silly Orlesian dresses and mistreated their elven servants — he was inclined to believe the former.

As soon as he approached the door to the tavern, two burly bouncers lumbered from inside to block his way. One was bald and big-bellied, the other a grizzled, scar-faced veteran.

"No knife-ears," the bald goon growled, and puffed out his chest.

Fenris considered the men. Neither would have given him more than an annoying three-second pause in a fight.

"I have been invited," he said. "By Lady Marica."

The men shared a look. "It's _him_?" the bald one grunted. His companion just shrugged.

Amazingly, the two stepped aside without further protest. They even allowed Fenris to keep his sword.

He entered the building and halted a few steps through the door to look for a member of the staff.

_The Viscount's Crown_ was probably the best tavern in Hightown, at least for anyone averse to bumping elbows with plebs. It was spacious, well furnished and very picky about its clients. Nearing lunch time, the clean, spacious common room was brimming with people who represented all nationalities and languages of Thedas. The only common nominator was their invariably expensive appearance and haughty demeanor.

Fenris's arrival had its expected effect on the surrounding guests. Gradually everyone close enough to notice started to glance his way. Some turned to stare. The sounds of conversation became hushed — a lot of it the elf's ears of course still easily picked up, whether the speakers realized it or not.

Fenris wondered how many complaints the landlord would have to settle before the day was over. He couldn't help feeling slightly malicious; it was perhaps not completely fair to cause trouble, for no respectable Hightown establishment could allow elven patrons, whether the owner shared the prejudices against them or not. Still, he found the situation far too entertaining to hurry overmuch.

At the sight of a young tavern wench staring at him open-mouthed, red enough to be about to faint and destroy the sizable meal she carried, the elf finally relented. No need to make anyone lose their wages because of him, he supposed.

After a few words with a potboy, who looked less likely to pass out, Fenris went upstairs, and quickly found the room to which he'd been instructed. Upon knocking on the door, a muffled invitation could be heard; he waited for a few seconds, but when no servant appeared to admit him inside, he did it himself.

The door opened to an expensively furnished, spacious single room. The lone occupant — a dark-haired noblewoman — stood at a window that opened to the street, apparently thinking of something else than his arrival.

Fenris gave the room a once-over, looking for anything out of the ordinary. When there seemed to be no immediate danger to his person, he closed the door, and stood in half-attention, with his hands behind his back.

"Madam," he said.

She acknowledged him with a slight inclination of her head.

In the overcast daylight, she looked like something out of a painting. She was of average height and wrapped in a tastefully embroidered black silk shawl, draped over a green dress. She was clearly of very noble birth, and secure enough in her wealth not to flaunt it. Thick brown curls tumbled down from what looked like a perfectly calculated mess on the back of her head, complete with pearled combs and a fragrant red flower Fenris could not name.

She turned, and they eyed each other for a moment.

Her face was captivating rather than singularly beautiful, with its caramel skin, wine-stain mouth and slanted eyes. Of her figure it was hard to be certain, for the thick black shawl concealed much, but she seemed like an extremely healthy woman; Fenris perceived a tantalizing glimpse of plump, corseted cleavage, complete with the glint of a golden necklace — the only visible piece of jewelry on her, aside from the decorative combs in her hair.

Careful not to stare, Fenris returned his eyes to her face, wondering why there was something... familiar about her. Had they met before? A touch of paranoia tingled in his spine.

"My thanks for agreeing to see me." She spoke in a soft, sonorous alto, complete with a heavy Antivan accent — a voice that would make most men feel slightly weak at the knees.

Fenris just nodded warily.

She did not seem to share his misgivings about scrutiny. Her dark gaze examined him thoroughly enough to remind him of his old armor, weathered skin and carelessly tied back hair.

"You are very unusual," she said.

"Excuse me?" Usually when people asked for him by the name, they'd been briefed by his contacts in the Mercenary Guild, and knew what they were getting.

If she cared about the glaringly omitted 'my lady', there was no sign of it. On the other hand, she made no pretension of calling him 'serah', either.

Once again her attention passed over him. "Well, you are not like the other elves."

"Too conspicuous?" he asked tentatively.

Her eyes locked with his. "No, no. Just an observation. You are what you are, no?"

"And that is..?"

One corner of her red mouth curled. "You need me to tell you that?"

Not a simpering airhead, then. He'd met peculiar clients before; if she wanted to play the no-names game, he knew how to oblige. "No."

"Well, then. You know who I am?"

"No."

"I shall tell you it shortly. Forgive me, for sending that filthy child. No usual... contact of mine wanted to accept jobs involving you. You tell me why, perhaps?"

"I am... hard to find?"

A small and oddly fetching sneer curled her upper lip. "Indeed. For how often people speak of you, one would expect you to have been everywhere. Yet I have never seen you before." She tilted her head. Her hand clasped at the shawl below her bosom. "Please, humor me. Tell me of yourself. Those tattoos, they are more than decorative, yes?"

Fenris was used to explaining his assets to potential clients. "They are made of lyrium, and grant me considerable power."

She considered his words. "Lyrium? They must be worth an enormous fortune."

"So I've been told."

"And you tell this openly? Surely many have tried to kill you because of them."

"They have. As you can see, none have succeeded."

She stroked the long fringes of her shawl, genuinely fascinated. "Do you come from some place far away?"

"From Tevinter, madam."

"And yet you know the trade speak so well. One almost can't hear the accent at all, no?"

Whatever the reason, Fenris had always been quick at picking up languages. His keen ears and ability to understand foreigners had served Danarius well. "I speak many tongues, and understand more," he answered.

"Hm. You are a mercenary — you work for hire, yes?"

"I do."

"Would you consider... unusual employment? For a handsome reward, of course."

_Uh, oh._

Usually when clients started to suggest something 'unusual', it involved services Fenris was not willing to perform. Thanks to Hawke's unasked-for generosity, he was still reasonably secure in his finances, and could pick and choose his jobs. Which was nice, since some of the clients his unusual reputation and looks attracted were... very disturbing, indeed.

"Forgive me, madam," he said. "I have no qualifications beyond basic Mercenary Guild requirements and some experience as a bodyguard."

Her brow knitted for a second, then relaxed, and she chuckled deep in her throat.

"Oh. How very unflattering, to be so rejected. Fortunately I have no intention to hire you to plow me. But neither am I here to ask you to kill someone or look intimidating over a crate of imports."

"Madam, you must forgive me but I do not —"

Suddenly his subconscious caught up with him. He frowned and his gaze dropped to her cleavage.

Whether it was the lyrium, he could not say, but he'd always had perfect eyesight. So it was just a matter of paying attention, to realize he knew the little gold pendant that rested in its long thin chain at the curve of her bosom.

Not fazed in the least by the suddenly changed direction of his eyes, she picked the piece of jewelry from the soft groove of her breasts.

"You recognize this, elf?" she asked, and dangled the pendant between her fingers.

"Yes," he said.

"Then you know who I am."

His eyes returned to her face.

_A glint of gold in a large, gloved human hand, under the shadow of the dark foundry._

_Skin on skin, the scent of sweat and sex and charred wood, and impossibly warm; the tiny weight of the pendant against his chest when Hawke moves... so close they are almost one._

_A woman at the Champion's side, seen from afar, by accident._

Suddenly his chest seemed too tight to contain the ache within.

"Yes."

She allowed the pendant to fall back. "What is your relationship with my husband, elf?"

"I work for him."

She arched a regal eyebrow. "Only so? You must allow me to doubt."

"It is the truth."

She saw his unwillingness to elaborate, and sighed. "My husband does not sleep easily. Sometimes he talks in his sleep. This is how I first heard your name. He was... very amorous, after." She lifted her chin, just the tiniest bit self-conscious. "Well, you know how it is — he has many lovers, I knew this before we married. But time went by, and I started to notice... things. Details that told me you are not just another fancy of his. I witnessed... conversations. Letters. My husband pays for information about you. Like many people who are born poor, he does not waste money. Except on you. So, it does not take a genius, to understand that you are more than just a hireling to him, no?"

A cold breath in his chest, now. The pain unfurled through him, into each tendril of lyrium. Panic vibrated beneath, a tightly coiled truth he needed to keep unsaid, unseen.

"Whatever happened, it was a long time ago," he said, his voice low, which meant it was little more than a growl.

"Perhaps." Her lips curved ruefully. "And perhaps you think I am an idiot. Time passes, and my husband, he is thinking of you... more, not less. Curious, no?"

He reminded himself to breathe, to relax, to not allow the sudden nauseating pressure in his temples to develop into something infinitely worse.

"I repeat, my relationship with your husband is purely professional, and this is how it is likely to remain. What more would you wish of me?"

He tried to keep his voice civil. Whatever had happened between him and Hawke, she was not responsible for it, nor the distress her presence aroused in him. If what she said was true, it was within her right to feel jealous. Although jealousy was not quite what he was getting from her, right now.

"My husband, he is not happy. An unhappy husband is... an inconvenience. Do you understand?"

"Not entirely."

She sighed. "It is like this. He goes to the Rose, I don't care. But the whores, they only make him sad. He comes back worse than he was. It becomes... tiresome, to live with someone so irritable, so... morose. If you are what he needs to be happy... well." Her feline eyes narrowed. "Do you now see?"

Fenris stared at her, too astonished to speak.

"I speak to you not as a client," she continued. "I know my husband is very good at getting what he wants. Thus, it must be either you who rejects him, or his consideration for my status that keeps him from taking you as a lover. Perhaps he fears I will disapprove of a male paramour. He will not speak of it to me. When I try, he loses his temper and walks away. Maybe you have better luck talking to him, yes? I would ask you to be discreet, to recall my position as the future mother of his children. That is all."

It was so unexpected, for a wild moment Fenris could not keep himself from imagining it. Cursed with an almost perfect memory, he still remembered... everything.

His heart raced, and his mouth went dry. The lyrium tingled maddeningly. Hawke had become very strong, of late. He would be — It would...

It would undo him.

As if a man losing his balance he struggled, and found purchase in the anger never far from his surface.

"You trust him a great deal," he said, his voice a mere guttural rumble from his chest. "But you mistake the kind of services I provide."

Her dark eyes sized him up coolly. Whatever she felt, she contained. However, the disapproving look in her eye told that, like her husband, she was not used to being denied.

"If it is a question of money, I am more than capable of providing anything you ask."

Fenris stiffened, if only to prevent himself from storming out at the insult.

After a moment she turned away, and gazed out of the window again. "Very well. Thank you for your time. And forgive me for the assumed name — I wanted you not to refuse my invitation just because of who I am." She inclined her head. "Luck be to you."

"Madam," he said, and left, determined to put the embarrassing encounter out of his mind.

Downstairs, the landlord seemed to be involved in a lengthy argument with some Orlesians. Words such as 'disease' and 'disgrace' could be discerned. Fenris made sure to brush against the most opulently dressed gentleman as he headed for the door.

But as he walked out of the tavern and down the crowded market-side street, he found that as his distance to Lady Marcia increased, instead of calming down, he grew more agitated.

He went to the Mercenary Hall. Clients often came to the compound looking for last-minute hirelings who'd take a job for a pittance. However, this time only the wannabe hirelings were loitering about, and Fenris left after checking the message boards.

Half an hour later he found himself pacing the Lowtown streets, hoping for a quarrel with some drunk foundry workers or doomsday zealots. But his intimidating appearance did its job, and no one dared to approach him.

Finally he gave up and, not in the mind to seek non-hostile company, returned to the squalid inn where he'd taken up lodgings. After closing the door he sat on his hard bunk, and for a long while stared at the floor, trying not to think, unable to stop doing so.

It had been a mistake to return to Kirkwall with Isabela. Now it seemed like the longer he remained, the harder it would be to leave.

Would staying behind in Ostwick really have been so dangerous? In three years there had been no sign of Danarius. It almost seemed like the magister might have given up. Fenris now actually wondered whether he'd be forced to go back to Minrathous to tear the bastard's heart out. Not even the slavers had been coming, of late.

But even as Danarius had occupied his waking thoughts, it was... someone else who had haunted his dreams.

Fenris could not even blame anyone else but himself for his unease. For three years the Champion had remained perfectly civil. By all appearances, Hawke had decided to put aside his misguided infatuation. But now, in less time than it took for the sun to rotate around the world, two people had come to tell not all was as it seemed. And the memories Fenris tried to keep in check surfaced like an ill healed rash.

To actually feel it again, after all these years... the tight control he kept, every bit of restriction — gone. The mere thought almost suffocated him. It took a concentrated effort not to give in to the fantasy, pitiful as it was just to imagine — a sickly little flame compared to the heat of a sun.

He rose from the bed to pace the dusty floor in agitation.

Why? Why did this come back to haunt him again and again?

And why did he even think of it?

Fenris knew he had few enough redeeming qualities. He was not Zevran or Lady Marcia, beautiful, worldly, seductive. He was a trained attack dog; vicious, and a brute. Clever, perhaps, but without learning higher than what patchy knowledge he'd gleaned from standing vigil for Danarius at the senate. And as Zevran had so helpfully pointed out, he did not even possess the charm necessary to patch the gaping inadequacies of his personality and education.

No, there was only one quality of his that could, after all this time, still have fascinated the Champion. The poisonous, ugly scars were all he had. Therefore, they had to be what Hawke wanted. After all these years, the mage was still unable to forget their effect on him.

Fenris felt his stomach turn uneasily.

And could he really fault Hawke for such weakness? It wasn't like he was doing any better at letting go, himself. Every brush of Hawke's skin against his markings was burned in his memory. Every embrace that felt... like his hard-won freedom was just a word, compared. As if every humiliation had been worth it. As if he was the only person that had ever really, truly been touched.

Cold sweat broke through his skin. The lyrium ached violently. He rubbed his forehead, muttering oaths under his breath.

Fenris had no delusions how easy it would be to lose himself in Hawke. How unlikely a contract of equals between them. All he could ever hope to become was Hawke's dog. It would be worse than serving Danarius. Far worse. With Danarius, he'd known no better. To allow himself willingly to become the Champion's creature...

In his dreams, Hawke had already replaced Hadriana. Wasn't it inevitable, what would follow? Hawke was strong, determined, ruthless when necessary. In Tevinter, he would have been a powerful magister — a senator, even. Stronger than Hadriana. Stronger, eventually, than Danarius. A magister to be feared by other magisters, worshipped by those beneath him; kind, and in his false kindness terrifying.

A master whom Fenris might never even have wanted to escape.

His stomach lurched violently. He barely had time to find the chamber pot before his innards turned themselves upside down. For a moment raw sickness wiped away everything.

After, he sat against the wall, cold and shaking with the remaining nausea, his mind in anxious turmoil.

A curse — it had to be. Over seven years ago, Fenris had met Hawke, and his life had never been the same. Even as fights and disagreements had driven them apart, something else had always forced Fenris back. Like now. He did not know how it had happened, but it had become as impossible to stay away from Hawke as it was to be with him.

Perhaps it was too late to worry about becoming Hawke's dog. Perhaps he was one, already.

The thought almost made him vomit again.

With trembling feet, Fenris got up, and went downstairs to order whatever swill was available, determined to stay drunk for as long as it took to get over this plague.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: It is taking a bit longer than I expected to get Hawke and Fenris together again. Please don't despair, it's coming, even though it'll take a chapter or maybe two for things to really start moving between the two blockheads._

_Thank you for my lovely beta elenilote, and everyone who has taken the time to leave a review!_

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><p>The Bone Pit was every bit as dreary and dragonling-infested as Hawke remembered.<p>

It was already dark when the four of them returned to Kirkwall, filthy and exhausted. After Isabela and Varric had departed for The Hanged Man, Hawke took the scenic route through Darktown with Anders, just to avoid meeting anyone on his way home by way of the secret tunnel to his house.

Anders seemed dour and unsociable; then again, he mostly did, these days. They walked in silence through the stink of chokedamp and collected waste of people who inhabited Darktown's hovels, caves and sewers. Many lacked even the most rudimentary shelter, and lived around open fires that ate at the meager amount of air.

Anders seemed not only used to the squalor, but at home among it. He stopped often to exchange greetings or secretly hand a copper to a former patient. When he did, some of the sadness seemed to leave his eyes, and Hawke glimpsed the kindly healer he was known as in these parts.

Hawke doubted his own face was known by many, here. Topside authority meant little in the undercity. Even now, sharp-eyed gang boys eyed their passage from the shadows, assessing Hawke's gear, ready to act should the opportunity present itself. After Viscount Dumar had died, the regular government clean-up raids to Darktown had been halted, and gangs had been left to grow and assert their dominance under street level.

Hawke knew some shopkeepers paid money for dispatching children who lived in the sewers and subsisted on what they could filch from stores. Joining a gang was not a choice; it was survival. The ones who lived eventually found their way to organizations such as the Carta or the Coterie. Even Athenril, Alienage-based and clean in comparison, had not been above hiring and recruiting from the Darktown gangs.

Yet Hawke knew Kirkwall was no worse than any other city in Thedas. He still remembered the cramped, seething streets of Denerim from his childhood — almost every alley had been ruled by a gang of its own. As an adventurous boy, Hawke had often clashed with the group who ran his family's neighborhood, and perhaps those tussles had helped his parents to make up their minds about moving to Lothering.

Coming to Kirkwall, almost a decade ago, had been strangely familiar. He'd been fifteen when they'd left Denerim, old enough to already have become an incurable city brat; ten years later, when he'd stepped from the refugee ship at Kirkwall docks, he'd taken one look at the sprawling city with all its squalor and craziness and politics and warring mobs, and realized he'd come back home.

Hawke was roused from his reverie to realize they'd reached the alley where his estate's secret back door was hidden. He turned to say goodnight to Anders, but was stopped by the haunted look on the healer's gaunt face.

"I'd like to discuss something," Anders said. "It'll only take a moment."

Hawke pushed aside his fatigue. He knew Anders had been wanting to talk for a while. Now was not the best time, maybe, but... well, at least the man didn't seem openly confrontational.

"Of course."

The healer looked around to make sure they were alone, and raked his fingers through his lank blond hair. He looked thinner and scruffier than ever, sandy-brown stubble on his sunken cheeks, the coat he'd once filled sagging around his frame. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, and swallowed visibly.

"Sorry," he said finally. "It's been a while since my last attempt at an actual conversation."

Hawke leaned his broad shoulder against the nearby wall, arms crossed. "Well, I can begin. Meredith hired me to hunt you down."

The healer's hazel-brown eyes widened. "What?"

"She ordered me to kill you. Tossed a copy of your manifesto in my face. By the looks of it, it came out of some maleficar's pocket."

"By Andraste's sword." Anders started pacing. "Well, are you going to do it?"

Hawke's eyebrows lifted. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Not really." The healer laughed nervously. "But didn't it cross your mind? Solve a lot of problems, make Meredith your sworn ally. You know. It's not that far fetched, considering our... disagreements."

Anders kept his voice light, but Hawke heard something else there, too. "Sworn allies, me and Meredith?" he said. "Yes, I can see how that'd work out. We'd be best buddies for all of three seconds before we'd try to cut each other's throats again. No. She's just angling for a way to get rid of me. And I'm not Fenris. You're not an abomination, and I know what you think of blood magic, so why would I turn you in?"

The rhetoric question hung heavy between them. The healer smiled bleakly.

"You'll be in a blighted lot of trouble if you don't present my head to her, you know."

"Doesn't seem to be a deficit of maleficar to blame. Fortunately she didn't ask me to produce you alive. So I'll just bring her... someone's head. She'll find out I was wrong, but I'll figure how to deal with her. Or it won't matter any longer. Either will do, by me." Hawke looked aside. "I almost wish something would happen. I hate this... waiting."

Anders stopped his pacing, sighed and turned to look at the Champion. "Sounds like another half-baked plan of yours. Where are you going to find a blood mage charming enough to pose as _me?_"

Hawke chuckled in surprise. For a second he remembered the Anders he'd met seven years ago — a brawnier, better dressed one, with a goofy sense of humor, endless energy to argue about politics, and fond memories of a silly puss called Ser Pounce-a-lot.

Maybe it was just what Kirkwall did to everybody. Whether it was the eternal chokedamp or miasma of blood magic, Hawke couldn't say, but the place had a way of driving people crazy, or at least aging and embittering them before their time. Marcia had, on more than one occasion, suggested moving to Antiva. But Hawke was the Champion. In all its mad glory, Kirkwall was his home. And his prison.

Perhaps he was crazy, too.

"I... I wanted to thank you," Anders said tensely. "And apologize. I know we've had our arguments, and I know I haven't always made it easy to —"

Hawke was starting to feel as awkward as Anders seemed. "Doesn't matter. We're friends, right?" No need to go into how he'd deliberately avoided the man for months.

Anders nodded. But what moved his lips was just the ghost of a real smile. "Yes. You've been a good friend. I want you to... well, just remember it, all right? That I really appreciate all you've done. Not just this — potion business."

Hawke frowned. "Are you going somewhere?"

"No, no! But... something might happen. With the spell, you know." Anders didn't meet his eyes. "Anything can go wrong. Justice might turn against me. Who knows? Nobody ever tried anything like this, except the Tevinters, and they're mad."

"Strange, by the way," Hawke said. "That Justice hasn't interfered. I understand you're not exactly able to pick and choose what he knows."

"No. I'm not."

"How can you stop him from sabotaging your potion?"

"I have no idea. Look. About Justice. About the spell. Why I asked you here is —"

Suddenly Anders groaned and bent over as if in great pain. Blue spirit magic crackled out of him. Then he stilled and stood up, unearthly light shining from his eyes.

"_Why do you question him?"_ Justice boomed, his voice thick with threat.

The Champion pushed himself away from the wall and stood his ground, even as the Fade spirit approached and then stood only an arms length from him, electric with immense power that made his body hair stand on end. Hawke had looked a pride demon in the eyes. Justice was hardly worse.

"Is that a trick question?" he asked. "I seem to recall it was _he_ who wanted to talk to _me_."

"_He has nothing to say to you, templar pawn. Leave."_

"He asked me to stay."

"_Out of a false feeling of friendship. You are no friend of his. You're like the others. Selfish. Torn. Without purpose."_

Well, right about that, at least, wasn't he? "Didn't think I'd need to point this out to you, but I've helped his cause several times. _Our_ cause. I'm an apostate too, remember?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Why was he trying to justify himself to this spirit?

Justice watched him with disdain. It was truly remarkable how much his presence changed the healer's appearance. All of a sudden he looked tall and imposing, even handsome. It also served to remind how much Anders had changed over the years.

"_Trivialities. You are conflicted. An uncertainty. Anders has no need of uncertainties."_

"How do I get the feeling he disagrees with you?"

"_Your vision is clouded. There is no disagreement. We are one."_

"If so, how come he's trying to separate you? And why aren't you stopping him? Obviously you need him more than he needs you."

"_I will not seek to stop justice."_

And with that, the spirit was gone and Anders jerked back into his body, and looked wildly around. Registering Hawke's darkened expression, he froze, and his confusion was replaced by horror.

"Oh, shit." He wiped sweat from his forehead. "He came out, didn't he? Lately I've had more of these... blanks in my memory. What did he say?"

Hawke told him.

"Oh, for the love of the Maker." Anders seemed utterly drained. "Look... maybe we should leave this for another time. Obviously I'm too tired to talk, after all."

"Sure. Whenever you feel like it."

Hawke made to go, then turned back. "Just one question. How long will it take to make the potion?"

Anders was obviously already thinking of something else, and would not look at him. "Ah... hm. Not sure. I know the formula, but the measures are... a bit vague. I'll have to experiment. I — I might need your help before it's done. But I'll tell you, then."

"Of course. Just send me a word."

Anders nodded. "Thank you, Hawke. I really appreciate it." The last words were little more than a mumble.

More confused about the healer's motives than ever, Hawke made his way through the secret passage to his estate.

The house was already dark, with just a couple of lanterns flickering at the windows. Hawke's aging mabari slept in front of the smoldering fireplace in the hall, but was roused by the sound of his master's footsteps. After patting his old friend, the mage climbed the stairs to the second floor and into his own room, where he lighted the fireplace and some candles and put away his staff and gear.

He was loath to wake Bodahn or Orana just for the sake of a bath, so he conjured frost in the tub in his room — a bit messy since cold magic was not his strong point. Finally satisfied with the amount of ice and snow, he warmed it with fire, until steaming water filled the tub, far too hot for any normal person to tolerate, but just perfect for him.

After scrubbing himself clean, he'd almost dozed off in the bath when a familiar soft rap sounded at the door.

He grunted a reply, and his wife entered and assessed the room, where frost had just melted and drops of water gleamed on the floor tiles and the furniture.

She shook her head as she closed the door, and spoke in her soft, pleasant voice. "You know how much it upsets Orana when you do that. The wall hangings need to be pressed again."

Hawke yawned and ran his hand over his face and washed hair. "I didn't want to wake anyone."

Her eyes took in his tired expression. "Long day?"

He looked back. Her thick dark hair was braided loosely for the night over her shoulder. Being from Antiva, she found the Kirkwall climate cold and dreary, and usually covered herself in several layers of clothing, whatever the season. However, now it seemed like she wore nothing under the long quilted dressing gown she'd thrown over her voluptuous curves, a fact that his senses were not quite weary enough to ignore.

"Very long."

"How was it?"

"The usual. Bickering abominations, monsters trying to kill me from left and right..."

She shifted her weight to lean against the door. Embroidered velvet clung to the fullness of her hip and revealed the lovely bend of one caramel knee.

"Why do you always give in to these needy requests? Like that Dalish girl. You never told me what really happened, but I will always remember how you looked when you came back from Sundermount..."

Despite the hot water, Hawke shivered. Suddenly it was impossible to stay still. He got on his feet, just to realize he'd forgotten something.

Marcia gestured for him to stay still, and fetched a towel from a drawer. Hawke stepped out of the bath and allowed her to dry him, which she did with good grace, such little courtesies being customary for an Antivan wife to pay for her husband. The texture of the linen felt nice against his tired muscles, bruised from the day's battles.

"_Pardon_," she said, then. "I should not have mentioned that incident."

"Mm. It doesn't matter." Hawke watched the top of her head, level with his jaw. His skin, already warm from the bath, ached pleasantly under her hands. His eyes strayed to the swaying curves of her breasts, partially revealed when she'd let go of the lapels of the dressing gown to handle the towel. "How was your day?"

"Oh, shopping new hats, darning my dear husband's stinky old socks... What else do we poor, lonely wives do when our men are away?"

"Right." Hawke knew very well his wife let Orana and her maid handle all sewing, and that she had milliners and modists come to the house, because she was too impatient to shop. It was more likely she'd met some friends... perhaps a lover. Her salon had already been fashionable before their marriage. After, it had become only more so, and now attracted important figures from all over Kirkwall.

Her ministrations were starting to have their expected effect on him.

"Not _all_ tired, hm?" An impish smile curved her small mouth.

Hawke had no idea whether Marcia actually had a lover or not — he'd made it clear he wasn't interested in the details, and expected her to return the favor. Yet he couldn't help feeling a bit annoyed at the thought of some oaf pawing her. Now, a woman, on the other hand...

She reached the towel around him, to dry his broad back. This of course brought her velvet-draped curves closer to his naked body, most likely as intended. Marcia tended towards plumpness rather than sleek curves, and her buff complexion glowed with health in the dim light of the candles. She smelled of flower-scented oil and warm female skin. It would have taken a much, much wearier man not to be tempted.

Hawke tugged open the belt of her dressing gown and pulled her close. She purred a laugh deep in her throat, her hands falling to the bend of his arse, and allowed the towel to drop.

o o o

Much later, Hawke fell back on top of the blankets and pillows, out of breath and definitely far more exhausted than he'd been when coming home.

After admiring for a moment the boneless, panting result of her efforts, Marcia settled languidly in the crook of his arm, a sweaty bundle of full limbs and breasts and long hair.

Her chin on his shoulder, she hummed contently and ran her fingers over the pelt of hair on his heavy abdominal muscles and chest. Hawke stroked her full backside, and with practiced ease, reached into the Fade for the tiniest bit of inverse healing magic to cleanse her of his seed.

Suddenly he sensed a change in her. She shifted her weight, then propped her head on her hand and looked at him.

"Maybe it would be time to stop doing that?" she said.

For a weird moment his befuddled mind assumed she meant the tremor magic trick he'd used on her, earlier. Then the intent of her words struck him. His brows knitted, and he craned his neck against the pillows to look at her.

"I thought we agreed. Not until the city is at least no longer under martial law."

She shrugged, a bit awkwardly due to her position. "Who expected it to last so long? I could have given you two children, by now."

Two dark-haired babies, one of them walking already. A familiar longing squeezed Hawke's chest. He sighed and wiped his hand across his forehead.

"Marcia —"

"The house is so empty," she said, as if to herself. "I am twenty and five, already. My first _marido_, he was old and could not give me children, but you are strong. I know I am not barren, I went to a healer the other day and she said —"

"I do not think that's a good idea," Hawke said. "Not until Meredith has been dealt with."

She sat up. "So it is _your_ decision, then?" Her rich voice grew harder.

"Well, you are my wife."

Definitely the wrong thing to say. Her Antivan temper flared, these days always just a mere breath away from the surface.

"Hah!" She flung herself out of the bed and went to find her discarded dressing gown, her hair a tangle of dark curls down to the small of her back. "Yes, I am the wife of the great Champion. Thank you for reminding me. Here I waste away in this great house, alone with servants. A convenient fuck when my husband comes home from his lovers and adventures!"

"You're hardly alone, with all the guests you entertain. And usually you only complain if I _don't_ fuck you when I come home." Hawke rubbed his eyes. "And anyway, you should remember that—"

Marcia pulled her dressing gown over her glorious round shapes with angry tugs and then looked at him, finger raised, her eyes flaming. "Do not say it, husband. Do not say that I knew what I was getting into!"

"Well, it's true," he said, rather meekly.

"I did not expect it to last three years. Three years!" She threw her hands in the air. Her accent grew thicker, as it always did when she was working herself up. "I should have written a contract! Is that not what everyone does with you?"

"We'll just have to be patient."

"Patient! When every day you could die? What will happen to me, alone?"

"You will be the richest young widow in Kirkwall. Hardly a terrible position."

She paced and gestured wildly. "I am already half widowed! If you will not give me a child now, at least stay at home more often! It is embarrassing to always accept invitations alone —"

"I have duties," Hawke said. But he knew his defense in this area of argument was weak, at best.

She tossed her hair over her shoulders. "_Minions_ is what you have, not duties. Why you not marry one of them, since you like doing what _they_ want, well enough!"

This was new. Had she heard something?

"I thought you weren't the jealous type," he said. "I never ask about _your _lovers."

She raised her chin. "I do not have any, so there is nothing to ask," she said imperiously.

"None?" Oddly, Hawke felt his heart sink. For all that he had always felt slightly annoyed by the thought of other men's hands on Marcia, her admission that there were none felt worse.

"Who would compare to the mighty Champion?" She sounded almost bitter. "Other men appear like children to me. How can I take a lover?"

"Maybe you should," Hawke heard himself say.

"Why?" she asked, dangerously chilly.

"It might do you good."

"Do me good..?" There was a fearsome glint in her eye. "Do me _good_? _Brasca!_ I will _not_ take a lover just so you can stop feeling guilty for ignoring me!"

"If you want me to stay at home more often, you're hardly helping with these tantrums of yours." Hawke knew it was a mistake to say it, but couldn't stop himself.

"Oh?" Her eyes widened. Like always, she seemed perversely delighted when he finally gave in to his own temper. "Oh..! So now it is _my_ fault you don't like to be at home, is it? _My_ fault? From the start I have done everything the way you wanted, _everything_! I have been the perfect wife! And this is how you pay me!"

She picked something from the floor. Hawke barely dodged a bar of soap — fortunately her aim was really bad.

"Maybe your bony-arsed elf had some sense in him, after all!" she cried. Then the slam of the door told she was gone, to throw a few things in her own room, undoubtedly.

Hawke stared at the closed door, then flopped down to frown at the shadows above him.

_My bony-arsed elf..?_

_What the fade was that supposed to mean?_

He knew better than to go after Marcia and apologize, as he'd sometimes done in the beginning, just to have surprisingly heavy things tossed at him. She had a tendency to blow her top and then act like nothing had happened the day after. Fortunately she did it only in private; it almost seemed like a favorite bad habit she only indulged in with those who knew her well.

Lately her fits had grown worse, however, and easier to trigger. He could sense the bitterness growing in her, and would have known the reason even without her finally giving voice to it.

Three years seemed not like an unreasonable time to wait, to him — but he was thirty and four. To someone almost a decade younger it probably felt like an eternity. Marcia's wish to become a mother was natural, of course, and Hawke's refusal nonsensical and unfair, even more so because of his excuses. His own parents had started a family in worse conditions; Hawke knew that, even on the run, he would be capable of providing for and protecting his wife and children, just like Malcolm had done. He knew he would love them and make Marcia happy. And in time, perhaps, he would find a level of peace, himself.

It wasn't like he _needed_ to endanger his life in silly scuffles and hop from one bed to another. He entertained far fewer lovers than his wife thought. He, also, had someone no one else compared to. Although Hawke wouldn't have described that person's arse as bony as much as very firm and...

No, better not go there.

How had she found out? Did it matter? She was smart and had sources of her own. Maybe the real question was how _long_ she'd known.

Hawke rolled on his side and stared into the low-burning flames of the fireplace.

It occurred to him that even though Marcia had been in his room hundreds of times, her presence never lingered. All his wife could ever be was an intruder within these walls. Someone else had already left his mark, here. Someone who had only been in this room once, a long time ago.

For a moment Hawke imagined a white-haired ghost standing in front of the hearth, watching him from years back with a sneer on his lips.

_You will never find peace with her, _the apparition said. _Not without me._

And like always, it was right.


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: As always, thank you for reading. And a big hug for all reviewers, and my beta Elenilote who answered all my silly questions like an angel today._

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><p>It took three increasingly forceful attempts before Isabela finally heard some movement behind the rickety door she was knocking on. Even then, whatever happened, it happened much too slowly.<p>

By the time there was an actual reply, the Rivaini had resorted to tapping her foot and blowing repeatedly at the soft white plume that spilled over the brim of her hat.

"_Who is it?"_ The words came through the worm-eaten planks in a growling, extremely pissed off staccato. Isabela rolled her eyes.

"The wicked Satinalia witch. Come on, Fenris, open."

She heard muffled curses in Arcanum. Then the latch was lifted, and the door budged a little on its rusty hinges.

As soon as the elf appeared, incredibly grumpy and hungover, Isabela held a piece of paper in front of his face.

"What is this?" she asked.

Fenris rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and squinted at the ink-stained message, which boasted his name scrawled across the bottom. The greatsword he held dragged against the sagging floor boards.

"My suicide note?"

"I have no idea what these scribbles are supposed to stand for, pet. Arcanum? Corff said the kid who brought this came from here. I only got to the Hanged Man a couple of hours ago. But I'm here now."

"I have no memory of sending a note," came the cranky reply.

"Well, bugger me with the fury of a thousand drunken sailors, then. Can I still come in?"

Fenris grumbled, but disappeared farther into the room without closing the door, and Isabela followed.

By the smell of it, the reason Fenris had taken his time was that he'd needed to throw up first. The place stank of days of drinking. It would undoubtedly have been worse, had there not been a noticeable draft from the closed window. The light that siphoned through its shutters was all that illuminated the little room, but Isabela could still see that even for lodgings in a Lowtown inn, it was bad. There was not only visible dust on the floor and peeling furniture, but actual crusted dirt, and the carpet was probably glued to the floor with grime. The stone walls sported layers of rather disturbing stains. Numerous differently shaped, empty bottles told how the place had been occupied for several days.

Fenris propped his sword against a table that rocked under its weight, and settled on a chair, looking like something the cat had dragged in and then chewed on. His hair hung in lifeless clumps to his shoulders, and by his rumpled look, he'd slept in his armor. There was a scabbed-over carpet burn on his cheek.

It was rather unfair that he still managed to look handsome. Then again, 'unfair' was a word that captured many things about the six months she'd spent traveling the Free Marches with him.

And yet, despite all the sexual frustration, it was sort of endearing she was now the first person Fenris contacted when in trouble. Had Isabela been the type, she would have felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

"I do not recall a note," Fenris repeated, his deep voice as flat as it would ever be.

Isabela headed for the window, opened the latch and pushed the shutters open to let in air and sunshine. Her efforts won her a groan and a string of Tevinter profanities.

"That, my pet, is entirely too easy to believe. From what I can see right now, I'm surprised you remembered your own name, last night."

Fenris muttered under his breath, leaned over the table and ran both hands through his hair. It was so matted that his fingers got stuck in it.

"Do you still have that _billitis_ stuff left?" Isabela was emptying the chamber pot out of the window. "I suggest you take it. I'm going to find something to put into you. Something that has a little more substance than the liquid lunches you've obviously been enjoying lately. And I'm going to take you for a bath. You stink like something fished out of the channel. A pile of somethings, actually."

Ignoring a litany of mumbled words that sounded vaguely like an objection, Isabela left.

It was probably a good sign that when she returned, the door was still unlatched. She nudged it open with the toe of her boot, and sidled in with a tray weighed by weak ale, bread, cheese and sausages, requisitioned from the innkeeper's own larder by way of a ridiculously inflated price. The man had been a remarkable creature — a greasy little ape with twitchy eyes and jittery fingers that were kept from pinching her only by his obvious respect for the daggers at her hips.

Fenris had managed to untangle his fingers from his hair, and was now chewing unenthusiastically at _billitis_, the tangy, herbal scent of Tevinter hangover medicine about him. By the time Isabela had cleared the table of bottles and settled down to eat, her floppy plume hat hanging from the pommel of Fenris's greatsword, the elf had recovered enough to down half a tankard of ale and start nibbling at the food.

"The innkeeper said he'll charge extra for the ruckus you caused last night when looking for stationary," Isabela said in between bites of surprisingly tasty sausage and bread. "Oh, and for the cleanup. Though by the looks of it, this room hasn't been scrubbed properly in years, so I suggest you skip that. The sod is likely to just take your money and spend it on whores. Why are you staying in this fadehole, anyway?"

Fenris explained about losing the use of his manor. Isabela scratched her temple, brows raised.

"Well. That sucks, sweetling. There are perfectly acceptable rooms in the Hanged Man, though, now that Varric's a shareholder."

"I don't want to stay at the Hanged Man."

"Why? Because of Zev?"

"I don't like people poking their nose into my affairs."

Isabela snorted. "Maybe if you took better care of them, no one would."

Petulant green eyes, surrounded by remarkably dark shadows, regarded her from under a curtain of tangled white hair. "Spoken by the woman who 'accidentally' got in possession of a sacred blood bowl and nearly got fried by a covenant of crazy maleficar."

"Hey, I was doing perfectly fine until you showed up with that oversized chicken spit of yours. That got them mad."

"You call it 'doing fine', hanging upside down from the roof with a knife at your throat?"

"I was lulling them into thinking they have the upper hand, pet. Always works."

"I see," he said in a voice that told he did not see it at all.

They finished breakfast, and Isabela made the elf strap on his baldric and sword, and almost physically pushed him out of the door and into the sunny late morning street outside.

Soon they descended a small flight of stairs to a nondescript establishment with a sign of a dolphin above its door. Isabela paid extra for privacy, and they followed a cleanly dressed young girl into a pleasantly warm and steamy compartment, illuminated by low-burning braziers and separated from the larger common pool by way of a partial tiled wall. The girl curtsied and left them alone, leaving behind washing supplies and a pile of towels.

Again Isabela ignored the elf's objections, and started helping him out of his armor, careful not to touch his skin. Had Fenris really not wanted her aid, it would have been easy for him to just push her away. Even without the lyrium, he was a handspan taller than her, and very strong. But Isabela had for a long time been wary of crossing a certain line, and gradually Fenris had started to allow her into his personal space.

"How did you get yourself in such a shape, pet?" she asked while removing his breastplate.

"In the usual manner."

"You know you shouldn't binge."

"Why? You drink all the time. I can't remember how many times I've carried you to your room."

"That's different. I can handle it. You can't."

Fenris muttered in Arcanum, but did not argue further.

The Tevinter's outlandish armor was tailored for both fit and ease of wear, but after being worn uninterrupted for days, it had nonetheless left deep red marks on his skin. Not for the first time Isabela suspected that the more distressed Fenris was, the more he punished himself by neglect, the same way Danarius must have done.

When the elf had arrived in Ostwick half a year ago, he'd been painfully gaunt and gloomy. Isabela had taken it upon herself to fix this, and gradually Fenris had gained a tiny amount of softness around the edges, and started to smile and laugh a little. It had done wonders to his attractiveness, and very little for the set of blue balls Isabela had developed in the process.

And then they'd returned to Kirkwall, and every day and week that passed, the Rivaini saw a bit of her hard work reversed. Isabela might have wagered that for the last four or five days, Fenris had subsisted on a purely liquid diet. He kept saying that the lyrium maintained him, but having seen him consist of little more than bone and sinew and corded muscle, she had her doubts.

With Fenris relieved of his gear and safely in the bath, she quickly shucked her own few garments, and plunged into the water only to reappear a moment later and bat her eyes at the steam on the water's surface.

"Ooh, hot! These baths near the foundries are always nice. I should come here more often."

Fenris had drawn himself to sit on a ledge hidden at the edge of the bath, dark water up to his chest, his face in shadow, hair still dry. It was a relief that he no longer seemed embarrassed by Isabela's nudity — a strange little hang-up, since it was common in both Tevinter and Rivain for the sexes to bathe together. Maybe it had something to do with how Danarius had kept him sequestered from other slaves, or with his long history of living alone.

Or maybe it was just that he found her at least a bit attractive in return? She'd seen the way he looked at her after a bottle of red, and despite his level of self-control, when they were together like this, the part of him that did not always obey his will sometimes betrayed his interest. She'd joked about it once or twice, but when he'd been too mortified to talk to her for days, she started to pretend it did not happen.

Sometimes it was convenient to be a woman. A female hard-on embarrassed neither of them.

Isabela pulled herself next to him on the underwater ledge and reached for a comb, gesturing for him to turn his back.

Had there been any sort of imaginative streak to Fenris at all, Isabela was certain she could have invented a way to turn _tolerance_ into _intimacy_. But she was not an idiot. The elf did not perhaps find her physically repulsive, but neither was he comfortable enough to allow her advances.

"Shit, this is bad," she muttered when teasing out the first tangles from his mane. "This isn't hair, it's _felt_."

"I told you I need to cut it. It's unbecoming. In Tevinter, only sex slaves —"

"No! You just need to comb it every day. I've told you, it looks nice. Different. That's what you want, right? Stop thinking what Tevinters would do."

For a moment Fenris scrubbed himself in silence. Isabela kept tugging the comb through his matted hair, biting her lower lip in concentration. Gradually the elf's head started to look less like a cat's toy.

"I met Hawke's wife," Fenris said suddenly.

"What?" Isabela's brows shot up. "Lady Marcia? Where? What was she like?"

"Very odd. She invited me to meet her. Said she doesn't object if I... well, if I and Hawke —" His shoulders twitched in a bit of a shrug.

"Really?" Isabela whistled low. "Clever woman. Or a very daft one. I'm not sure which. Are you going to take her up on that offer?"

The elf looked at her from the corner of his eye, aghast. "What? No!"

"Well, bollocks. Why not?"

"Hawke — he's —"

"Incredibly handsome and dangerous, and the most powerful man in Kirkwall?"

"No, he's —"

"Completely and utterly smitten with you?"

"No! I mean, he's —"

Isabela pursed her lips. "A man? Mmm. Yes, a man if there ever was one. A bit smug, sure, and a bossy bastard in bed, but terribly entertaining. If you don't mind the occasional bruise or two in a tender spot. And tottering about like a retarded duck."

Fenris looked away, muttering something in Arcanum. The tips of his ears grew red.

"Oh, you mean he's a mage?"

The tiny, spastic move of his head might have been a nod.

"From what I've gathered, you can't be with anyone _but_ a mage," Isabela said ruefully. "So why not go for it? Hawke gets a hard-on so bad he can't walk straight whenever he sees you, and you obviously have something going for him, otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it. And for all his faults, he's an honorable man. So I don't see the problem."

"His unhealthy obsession with my markings is nothing if not a problem."

Isabela sighed and ran her fingers through his now almost untangled mane of hair. She was very careful not to graze the markings beneath.

"Well, if you two have anything in common, it's the need to believe the worst of each other. I admit that Hawke can be a jerk, at times, but he's hardly as bad as Danarius." _And you're not exactly a bundle of love and understanding, yourself._

"Danarius was not always bad, either. Most of the time he was perfectly civil."

"Yes, a perfectly civil, all-powerful sociopath who raped children for fun, sacrificed babies and made you massacre a whole village."

"Hawke has killed just as many."

"We are all killers, pet."

Fenris fell silent for a moment. Isabela continued to stroke her fingers through his hair. He was visibly starting to relax.

"Not everyone needs to... act upon their base instincts," he said, then. "I am perfectly content."

"That would be more convincing if you actually seemed content once in a while."

"Peh. The sisters in the Chantry, they don't —"

Isabela chortled. "You'd be surprised how many of them appear regularly in disguise at the Rose's door."

"Not all of them, I'm sure."

Isabela reached for a bucket and filled it from the steaming pool to rinse his hair. It was usually better not to lather it. The harsh lye soap available in public baths made his unnaturally bleached mane almost unmanageable.

"No. Not everybody needs sex, as improbable as that seems. But if memory serves, you think the Chantry rules by oppression and propaganda. You're really looking to its minions for life advice, now?"

"Better than taking it from _you_ —"

She upended the bucket over him.

The elf sputtered, and wiped wet hair from his eyes. Isabela took the soap, and started lathering herself.

"Isabela," Fenris said after a moment. "Can we leave?"

"Sure. What do you want to do? Varric said he's —"

"I mean, go away. From Kirkwall."

"Oh." Isabela's hands moved more slowly. "Fenris, I'm sorry, but I have unfinished business here."

The Tevinter seemed unhappy. "Scheming with Hawke, aren't you? For Castillon's head."

"Well — yes. But it should net me a ship. So you understand if I'm not exactly rearing to go, right now. Maybe after a few weeks..."

"Fine. I can go alone."

"What?" Isabela threw the soap away, scrambled into the water and pulled up to sit where she could look him in the face. "No, no! You can't, pet. Look at me! It's too dangerous."

"I can't stay here," he said, refusing to meet her eyes, burning face turned away from the light of the braziers. "I can't. He's not... he's like a force of nature. There will be nothing of _me_ left."

There was genuine distress in his voice. She stroked her wet curls, grasping for words. "Look, just give me a bit of time, love. All right? It won't take long. This Castillon business should be over in a matter of a week. But it'll take a while to find a crew, and to prepare —"

Fenris kneaded the lyrium-bound muscle at his left shoulder, and threw her a sidelong glance. "How long?"

"Maybe a month. A month is not too long to wait, is it? Just give me a month, and we can go anywhere you like. We'll have a ship and can head straight to Dairsmuid if you wish. Shit, let's go to Par Vollen if all that matters is getting as far as possible. Just wait a bit longer. All right?"

"And what if this plan of yours backfires?"

"Well, then we'll just go on foot. Assuming Castillon hasn't chopped them off."

After a moment, he nodded.

"Promise you won't leave before I have a ship? No skulking away in the night, sneaking alone into the mouth of danger?"

"No skulking for a month. You have my word."

"Brilliant." She took a wash rag. "Let me scrub your back. Then we have to get you something decent to wear."

He peered at her, suspicious. "For what?"

"It's Varric's gambling night, remember? You're coming. No buts." She rolled her eyes at his expression. "No, Zevran's not coming, and neither is Hawke, most likely. He's far too important for us lowly misfits these days. Probably stuck arguing his way up Meredith's arse — you know how he is. Varric says he hasn't been to the Hanged Man for over a month."

"Well, perhaps then."

"You seriously need to lighten up, sweetling. What better way to do it than getting rid of a few heavy coins in your purse?"

"You always keep trying to find the impossibly small bright side to everything, don't you?" There was a hint of a crooked smile to his voice, now.

"Don't forget my uncanny ability to see the hidden possibilities, pet. Oh, the _endless_ hidden possibilities." She grinned and rubbed the coarse, wet cloth across his back, admiring the way solid muscle moved under his tan skin and markings.

_Unfair._

"How about a shorter vest this time? To show off that midriff, you know. It's a cardinal sin to hide an honest-to-Maker eight-pack."

"I suppose you would parade me around naked if you could, woman. Perhaps something with sleeves this time? And gloves, too, if you can manage."

She sighed. "Spoilsport. All right. Gloves and long sleeves it is."

"Thank Andraste for that."

There was a twinkle in her eye. "As it happens, I know just the place. What do you think of... Antivan leather?"

She burst out laughing at his expression, and by way of dunking herself into the bath, dodged a bucketful of water tossed in her direction.

o o o

As it happened, the Champion did not intend to go to Varric's, but ended up doing so anyway.

For three days already, Hawke had been looking after an Orlesian delegation sent by Queen Celeste to 'improve trade relations'. The hard-faced group showed little interest in material matters however, and Hawke had soon assessed they were in fact trying to find out the if the Champion of Kirkwall really was a known apostate. Unless he was completely mistaken, at least one of the envoys was an agent to the Divine herself. Perhaps the red-haired female with the lilting voice?

Meredith had strictly forbidden Hawke from referring to his magic, which over the course of the last few days had gradually become more and more difficult. By now Hawke was running out of ways to avoid admitting his gift without lying about it, either, and sorely envied maleficar for the convenience of mind magic to convince people that red was blue and brontos could indeed fly.

By the third night Hawke was so desperate to get away from the diplomatic push-and-pull that when the first opportunity to flee presented itself, he took it. Without even risking a change of clothes he headed straight for the Hanged Man, and due to his aversion to sedan chairs, ended up attracting considerable attention on his way. The uniform he wore had been bestowed upon him by the Knight-Commander for formal occasions. It was a suit of elaborately layered and padded materials that echoed the Templar Order's red and gold, with Andraste's sword in the quilted tabard and the Champion's chain on top. Marcia said he looked imposing in it; personally he felt like a blighted Satinalia gift. Probably one Meredith planned to carve open with the huge sword she always carried at her back.

The reception was no less marked when he finally reached the Hanged Man. Had he really almost been thrown out of this place, once? It seemed like a hundred years ago. Now when he stepped in, people fell silent, and half of them scrambled out of their seats to take off their hats.

Hawke took one look around him and headed for Varric's suite.

No one else had arrived, yet. The dwarf was doing some bookkeeping, a pair of tiny round reading glasses on the bridge of his broad nose as his quill danced over a heavy ledger. When the mage walked in, he looked up, and lifted his brows at the Champion's finery.

"Hawke! Here in an official capacity, or did you just doll up to make my old heart flutter?"

"You know I always dress to impress you. My ruffled gown was in the laundry, though."

"Aww. Well. Bianca certainly appreciates you trying to look all manly, for a change."

"I'm so happy your crossbow approves." Hawke heaved his weight into a chair. "No one else does. Please, Varric, hit me with a shot of the deadliest poison you have."

Varric stood and headed for the cabinet that held his collection of liquor bottles. "Meredith again?"

"Worse. Orlesian spies."

"Ouch." Varric discarded the tumbler he was holding for an actual glass. A moment later he thumped it on the table in front of Hawke, three fingers of something light brown sloshing in it.

Hawke tossed back a mouthful, and coughed.

"What's this?" he wheezed. "Something you use to rub on Bianca when the two of you are alone?"

"What? No, Bianca's a lady. That's something Shorty left behind." Varric settled into his big chair again.

"Antivan boot oil?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. But it goes into your head like a slap from a pretty girl straight from Orzammar, and settles in your stomach like a kickback bolt. So it should serve your purposes."

Hawke drank more, and almost immediately felt the fuzziness of alcohol (and perhaps something even stronger) in his brain. The taste would take getting used to, but Varric was right — it was _very_ potent.

The dwarf's quill scratched against the parchment while he cross-checked figures from a pile of receipts.

Gradually the liquor started to soften the worst edge of Hawke's annoyance, and he felt balanced enough to speak again.

"I swear the next time one of those Orlesians harasses Sandal about his enchantment box or tries to sneak around my house to look for spell books, I'll throw a fireball the shape of a horse and be done with it. I'm so _bored_. Please daddy, can I go hunt blood mages again?"

"Not today, Champion," Varric said, eyes still flitting between his accounts and receipts. "Today you're going to lose a couple of sovereigns in Wicked Grace to a certain handsome dwarf."

Hawke bugged his eyes, then squinted. "Two more shots of this, and you can get not just my gold, but this jester's getup, too."

Varric appraised him over the brim of his glasses. "I suppose all that frippery should net me a few silvers in a rag shop. And it's always a pleasure to send you packing in nothing but your boots." Varric sighed, closed the ledger, and folded away his reading glasses. "So, tell me. What's the latest development in the saga of Meredith and Orsino and their unrequited sexual tension?"

After some gossip, two glasses of Zevran's whatchamacallit and a few puffs on his _melleta_ pipe, Hawke was actually starting to feel like a human being again, rather than a very frayed rope in a game of tug-of-war.

Before long, Donnic arrived, wearing nondescript town clothes and an odd scarf — perhaps knitted by Aveline, based on the fact that it was twice as wide at one end as the other.

The three of them were just laughing over Varric's vivid description of a particularly bizarre Orzammar newcomer in the latest Dwarven Merchants' Guild meeting, when there was another knock on the door, and Isabela clambered in, wearing her ridiculous plumed hat, and bringing with her the smell of fresh pastries.

"Hello, landlubbers. Anybody feeling peckish?" She waved a basket in their general direction. "We went to the market and found this absolutely _huge_ — oh. Hawke!"

She stopped in her tracks, and someone in a long dark coat and with an Orlesian two-handed sword at his back walked straight into her from behind.

"Broody, Rivaini," Varric said amicably. "Please, sit your hairless asses down and let's get started."

Fenris straightened and stared at the Champion from the shadow of his hood.

Against all odds, he did not leave immediately. After a second of standing at the threshold he stepped in and turned to rack his sword with what was perhaps a bit too much force.

"I see our local magister has decided to grace us with his presence, after all," the elf rumbled, and pushed back the hood of his coat. Hawke's heart skipped a beat at the sight of soft white hair tied loosely at the back of his slender neck.

"Looks more like an evil templar overlord, to me," Isabela said, her eyes on Hawke's fancy getup. She'd already discarded her cloak and now placed the basket on the table. "I feel positively drab, all of a sudden."

Hawke took his pipe from his mouth. "You should see my garters," he said.

Isabela ooh'ed. "I should, shouldn't I?"

"We're about two bottles of whiskey early for strip diamondback, I'm afraid," Varric said.

The banter around him continued, but Hawke found his ability to listen strangely compromised, as Fenris hung up his coat and headed for Varric's liquor cabinet.

It seemed Isabela continued to succeed in making the prickly bastard wear things other than his old armor. This time it was a doublet and jerkin, breeches and tall gaiters, complete with a pair of gloves he tucked under his belt while walking. Nothing too flashy; the sleeveless jerkin was dark leather over a quilted white wool doublet, laced and with ribbons hanging from it in style reminiscent of Antivan fashion. All in good taste... but very short. Shorter than any coat Hawke had seen on Fenris so far.

The breeches underneath were scandalously tight. Hawke chewed on the stem of his pipe. The elf had put on a bit of weight, hadn't he? It looked very good on him. He'd always been just a bit too lean, before. Now he seemed... more developed.

Fenris stopped in front of the cabinet and reached for a glass and a decanter of some nameless clear spirit. While pouring, his balance shifted from one bare foot to another. The muscles under his tight breeches tensed and relaxed. Hawke almost swallowed his pipe.

_Maker._

Someone cleared his throat.

Hawke froze and glanced around to see Varric, Donnic and Isabela all looking at him with varying levels of amusement, curiosity and open snickering. Had he said it aloud?

The target of his ogling turned around with a glass on his lips, and froze at the strange little tableau.

"What?"

Isabela winked. "Oh, everyone's just stunned by how fantastic you look, pet."

The elf blushed hard under his tan. "I do not care how I look. This is an... experiment." Evidently one that embarrassed him, although Hawke could not imagine why, since he looked stunning.

Isabela grinned and reached for the basket she'd brought. "Well, _I_ care. And I say so far, the experiment has been a _great_ success. Or what do you think, Hawke? Isn't he gorgeous?"

_How in the Void did she convince the uptight prick to go shopping?_ Hawke could not imagine convincing Fenris to say 'a', let alone change something in his appearance. _Next she'll make him eat fish and like it._

Once again he fought down his jealousy, and tried to think of something to say.

"Needs a bit of color, in my opinion. Perhaps a few feathers, maybe a tiara..?"

"Ohhh. I like the way you think," Isabela crooned and opened her basket. "Blueberry pie, anyone?"

Fenris scowled at them both and came to sit next to Donnic, who as usual seemed intent on ignoring their inane discussion.

They finally got the game started, even though Hawke was beginning to doubt the wisdom of not taking the first excuse that came to his mind and running away.

_Our local magister._ That had been an acerbic greeting, even by Fenris' standards.

As if Hawke would made any sort of Danarius at all. It was probably frowned upon in Minrathous if a senator kept escaping his duties to molest his handsome slave bodyguard in every available dark corner —

_Bad_ direction of thought. He did not trust this uniform to hide _everything_.

Was he completely addled, or did Fenris keep glancing at him? The only reason he noticed was that he kept stealing looks at the elf, and sometimes they did it at the exact same time. The elf seemed tired and more self-conscious than normal, and had a small scabbed-over abrasion on the side of his face, almost like a carpet burn. It appeared he was looking at the emblem of Andraste's flaming sword embroidered on Hawke's tabard, or maybe his Champion's chains. At least it seemed more likely than that he was admiring Hawke's broad shoulders and manly chest.

The discussion meandered around topics of secondary importance — a ribald troupe of traveling actors, whether or not the political struggle would prevent the next Grand Tourney being held in the city, Donnic's observation that thanks to the suspension of the Viscount's office, the Coterie had grown in influence, since when people could not ask for justice, they hired someone to dispense it.

Between games, Fenris went to order ale from Corff. Isabela watched him go, then leaned toward Hawke, a huge slice of blueberry pie in her hand.

"You know... he's been on a bender for four days," she whispered.

Well, that explained the dark circles under the elf's eyes. Hawke raised his brows at the pirate, who shrugged a little.

"Talk to him, maybe?" she said.

"Why?"

"Well... _maybe_ you two have something to talk about?"

Hawke tried to point out that it was not really an answer, but she had bitten into her slice of pie and just mumbled something around it.

Fenris returned, looking just as sexy and moody as when he'd left two minutes ago. Cora brought a tray of ale, and they got the second game going. Somehow they even got through it without Hawke embarrassing himself abjectly, despite several thoughts that were wholly inappropriate for a friendly gaming table.

"So, how are things in Hightown, Elf?" Varric asked when counting his winnings after the game.

The elf's face darkened.

"What? What did I say?"

"Oh. That. He lost his manor. You didn't know?" Isabela chirped, completely ignoring a warning look from the Tevinter as she again cut into the blueberry pie. "I thought you guys have your fingers so far up this city's ass that it can't wiggle a toe without either of you getting wind of it." She paused, and considered what she'd said. "Oh my, what an image."

Hawke frowned. "What? When?"

"Oh, four, five days ago, I suppose?" Isabela shrugged.

"I didn't know."

Fenris seemed irked by the Rivaini's loose tongue. "And why should you? Should I perhaps compose a weekly report of my misfortunes?"

"As riveting as that sounds — no, I just need to know where I can reach you."

Varric glanced at the both of them, Fenris looking away with his arms crossed and jaw set, Hawke staring at the elf, masking his concern with anger.

"We just worry about you, Elf," Varric said. "Where are you staying?"

"Someplace called the Lucky Shard."

"The Lucky Shard? That place is a sty! Why don't you come here? There are perfectly acceptable rooms at the Hanged Man and I can get you a discount. I can even guarantee a bed neither of those two ever had sex on."

"Varric... have you been keeping record?" Isabela cooed.

"Of course. I want to know where a self-respecting dwarf should never touch."

"I have suddenly lost my wish to sleep in this place ever again," Fenris muttered.

Again Hawke barely followed the discussion.

So someone had found a way to reclaim the old manor from the city, after all the trouble he'd gone through to make it understood it was not to be allowed? Seemed like there were still strings in Kirkwall he didn't know of. Troubling. Well, whoever had bought the manor, he would soon find that it had been a _bad_ idea.

"You should have told me — us, I mean," he said. Somehow it came out sounding like an accusation.

"And you should definitely stay at the Hanged Man," Varric said, and shook his head, idly fingering his pile of silver coins. "You'll get the whooping cough in the Lucky Shard. Or worse. You know the Shard's landlord is a known blackguard? He'll sell you to the highest bidder if he finds out you're worth anything."

"I did not want to tell anyone," the elf snapped. "And I do not want to stay here. End of discussion."

"But surely we can solve such a little problem with a bit of —" Varric started.

Fenris's temper was visibly starting to fray. "I said no. Leave it."

The dwarf raised his hands, palms outward. "Fine. Have it your way, Elf."

But Hawke was not so easily discouraged. "You've lived in that place for what, eight years, and now you refuse our help for... what? Pride?"

Fenris turned to look at him with narrow eyes. "Yes, surely pride is a worse sentiment than what moves _you_ to spy on me and meddle in my affairs."

Hawke froze. "And what in the Void is that supposed to mean?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.

Fenris did not answer. The silence festered between them, as they stared at each other across the table.

Isabela's piece of pie lay lodged inside her cheek. Varric's hand opened and closed above his pile of coins. Donnic rubbed his neck and just looked like he wished he were somewhere else.

Then Isabela audibly swallowed her mouthful of food. She turned toward Donnic and gave him a brilliant smile. "So, Donnic. Did Aveline already stick her thumb up your ass, perchance?"

The guardsman opened his mouth in surprise, closed it, and blushed a deep, telling crimson.

Fenris blinked slowly and raised his hand to his brow, as if coming out of a trance. He stood up, not looking at any of them.

"Forgive me. I don't feel too well. Thank you for the game, Varric."

"Well, that was strange," Varric said after Fenris had snatched his coat and sword and disappeared into the corridor. "What got Broody's knickers in a twist?"

Isabela sucked mashed blueberry from her thumb. "Indeed. What in the world?" Her brown eyes turned toward Hawke.

Wordlessly, the Champion stood up and walked out of the room.

He reached Fenris when the elf was already halfway to the back door, the hood of his coat pulled over his head and the sword strapped to his back.

Hawke grabbed Fenris by the arm, guarded from unwanted effects by the thick, felted wool of his coat. The elf spun around and stared up at Hawke from under his hood and white hair with the look of a trapped wolf.

_He's still afraid of me? After all these years?_

"Don't throw something away just because you can't stand me," Hawke said.

"So you still believe everything revolves around you?" The elf yanked his arm free of Hawke's grasp.

"And you still insist it doesn't, even when it's blighted obvious?"

Fenris looked away. "_Vishante —_ of all the arrogant..."

Standing so close, did Hawke just imagine it... under the spicy scent of lyrium and expensive leather, did the elf smell of Isabela, or the coconut oil she used for her skin?

"Don't pretend it wasn't me who prompted that little scene back there. You wouldn't have had any problems accepting help from the others. And speaking of the others. What's your relationship with Isabela?"

Fenris looked at him again, frowning in disbelief. "What?"

How many times had he imagined it already? Fenris's markings on her glowing brown skin. Their slightly coarse, raised shapes gliding against her. There was nothing quite like it. She would make him have his hands on her for hours. And his tongue. And his —

"Is she your lover?"

Fenris stepped back and shook his head slowly, dismayed. "So that's what you..."

Hawke took a step as well, unable to keep his jealousy in bay any longer. "I swear, if she is —"

The elf raised a hand. Through the dark leather glove his markings shimmered in the dusk of the corridor, a warning. The mage stopped.

"Don't, Hawke."

"I need to know."

"_Venhedis..!_ What does it _matter?_"

"So it's true?"

Hawke's whole body tensed with something evil. His hands felt like smoldering coal. He wanted to burn something, badly. He knew it was insane, but he also knew that anger would prevent him from doing something else unforgivable, something that he really, really wanted to do right now... something he'd promised never to do again.

Fenris stared at him, a wild look in his green eyes. Then the elf shuddered and lifted his gloved hand to his temple. His face disappeared behind his hood.

When Fenris spoke, his voice was strangled.

"Hawke... don't ask me to deal with this now. I can't... look, it's too much, this — thing between you and me. It's just not, not —"

Suddenly someone walked into the corridor, and they both started. When Hawke recovered, the Tevinter was already retreating.

"It's not... what? Fenris!"

But the elf had already turned on his bare heels and disappeared behind the corner.


	26. Chapter 26

_He knew why the Seheron natives were called Fog Warriors. But only after fighting at their side did he really understand._

_They moved without sound on the steep slopes of the mountain forest, almost invisible in the grey fog of dawn, communicating with whistles that imitated bird calls. It was unlike any military operation Fenris had ever participated in. Even the huge kossith, working with the Riverbend warriors in seamless unison, moved like ghosts through the jungle. It was a thrill to see them in action, the determined expressions on their faces, their bodies glistening with water and smeared with black and green paint to disguise them._

_They reached the ambush site, and like monkeys the savvath climbed the trees, leaving the kossith to hide behind bushes. Fenris remained on the ground as well, and knelt behind a tree, clutching a heavy spear in his gauntleted hands. He longed for his sword, but the lance remained the closest he'd found in terms of reach and weight._

_He was beginning to understand why the Fog Warriors went mostly naked. His armor was thoroughly wet from moving through the forest. The drenched leather felt unpleasant and sticky against his skin. It was cool now, but soon the temperature would rise, and the moisture in his gear would remain and make it even more uncomfortable for what could be hours._

_Then he forgot his discomfort, as he heard the enemy's approach — the clatter of their armor and weapons, alien to this place and its song of birds and insects._

_He glanced up into the misty trees. Kari looked back from where she sat perched on a thick branch, bow and quiver ready. She touched a finger to her slightly pointed ear. He nodded, and she grinned, white teeth flashing in her painted face. Her little monkey had for once been left behind._

_Then the Qunari emerged from the fog, marching in rows of two along the narrow road. Fenris crouched lower in the undergrowth. The enemy's exact number was unknown; scouts had spoken of a hundred camped warriors, but that had been a guess at best. There could well be more than a hundred of them, and only two score of Riverbend warriors, and five-and-twenty kossith. Yet the Fog Warriors seemed utterly unafraid._

_From his hiding place, Fenris watched the armored Qunari march by, axes and swords at their belts, heavy shields slung at their sides. It was strange to be close enough to see their nostrils and smell their warpaint, yet not be seen himself, with his hair and markings masked under a thick layer of clay-and-charcoal paste. From how the Qunari kept glancing about in suspicion, they sensed the danger, yet Fenris saw no signs of apprehension on their faces, just acknowledgment of the threat in the fog._

_As soon as the whole double column had emerged, the savvath nocked their arrows and let fly, most of them killing or incapacitating an enemy at once. More arrows followed, but now the Qunari had raised their shields, and what arrows still flew bounced from them without harm._

_Any other enemy would have been thrown into disorder by such a surprise attack. But the Qunari just stood their ground with unnatural calm, and readied their weapons._

_A shrill whistle was sounded. Fenris could not see it, but he knew that a handful of kossith had stepped to the road to block the enemy unit's path. Another group cut off its retreat. The savvath drew their axes and knives and dropped from the trees like nimble apes — though no ape would have moved through the fog with such ghostly silence._

_Fenris sprang forward, and was one of the first to emerge from the bushes, his markings flaring up through the paint, otherworldly in the swirling white cloud that wreathed the forested slope._

_From the very first contact he knew the spear would not last. He was used to swinging his weapon with unnatural strength, slashing its dull edge through armor and flesh like no normal warrior could. The spear required a lighter hand, but his lyrium-enhanced instincts knew no such thing, insisting instead on crashing into his foes with a force that swept them aside like dolls._

"_Demon!" the Qunari cried at him, and Fenris fell into the battle with brutal relish. Kari's mother had done as much as she promised, and mended his old, badly healed scars. Only now, when they were gone, did he understand how much those old wounds had bothered him._

_The Fog Warriors around him flitted in and out of the mist, disappearing into it after a kill to emerge again behind the back of another enemy. Chivalry would have been senseless, since they were so badly outnumbered._

_Fenris himself had no use for stealth. Disguise and shadow did little to mask his glowing markings. His weapon was open intimidation, not unexpected threat. And indeed even the Fog Warriors kept their distance, mistaking his savage fighting style for battle rage, even though he did not fight with berserk fury like the kossith, but with calm and certainty._

_Miraculously the spear lasted almost until the end. A Sten's thick neck finally broke it, as he struck against it hard enough to dislocate the officer's helmeted head. Had Fenris been holding a sword, it would have sliced cleanly through. But the spear cracked and splintered, one of its weakened iron fixings actually snapping in two. Without conscious thought Fenris let go of its broken remains, and rolled to avoid a charging Karashok, phasing his hand to tear out the tendons on the soldier's leg on his way._

_Deprived of a weapon he knew how to use, he fell back on his speed and agility, trusting his instincts to take him close enough to phase-punch. The rate he dispatched enemies slowed down, but did not stop. And it had an appeal of its own, to fight with nothing but his hands and the lyrium in him, even though it was more dangerous._

_Later they would count hundred and eighty Qunari dead on the road. Only half a dozen of Fog Warriors had been lost, twice as many badly injured._

_The sun had not yet emerged from behind the mountains, but the fog was already clearing when Kari approached him, bloodied from head to toe. There had been little time to observe during the battle, but Fenris had caught a glimpse of her fighting among the others, graceful, quick and ruthless, as deadly with her ax and long knife as she was with her bow. Despite her youth, she was clearly a seasoned warrior._

_He wondered when she had killed her first enemy._

_He wondered why, again, this all felt so very... very familiar._

_It was the lingering heat of battle, perhaps, that kindled something forbidden in his loins. His sudden longing for her surprised and shamed him. He had no right to want her. And still he did, drawn to her perhaps by how different she was from everything he knew._

_She stood in front of him, almost as tall as he, her sleek muscles warm, light brown skin sweaty and glowing from exertion. She painted the symbols of sun, moon and the morning star on his face with the blood of her enemies. By chance only she avoided touching his dimly glowing markings, and thus the pain was dulled, a shallow incision instead of a twist of a dagger in an open wound. But he wouldn't have flinched, either way. The consequences of trying to avoid being handled had always been worse than the pain itself._

_She took a look at the shallow cuts and emerging bruises on his skin, at the thick blood and mucus that coated his arms almost to the shoulder. He bore her scrutiny without a word; it was far less invasive than the examination his master had subjected him to after a battle. Then her green eyes slowly lifted toward his._

"_They called you a demon, white-hair," she said. "But I think you a djin of war, kin to spirits. The way you fight... it was beautiful." She grew almost bashful. "I have noticed how you look at me. Do you... like me?"_

_He stared back, bewildered. Was it a trick question? When Hadriana or Danarius asked him something, there was sometimes no correct answer... and a punishment waiting for the wrong ones._

_He realized he was still looking at her. Hadriana would have had the skin from his back for such a stare. He averted his eyes._

"_You are beautiful," he said, stating a simple fact, but not able to completely keep the longing from his voice._

_From the corner of his eye he saw her face light up with a smile that rivaled the sun emerging from behind the mountains._

"_Then I will come to you tonight," she said, and turned to go. And to his horror, he could not find in himself the courage to call her back, and tell her that what she expected of him was impossible._

o o o

"_Sacre me!"_ cried the Orlesian nobleman.

The opulently dressed dwarven merchant rubbed his beardless chin. "Ah. So the place _is_ haunted. How curious! And such a fascinating manifestation. It only occurs in this one room, this one day of the month."

The short, paunchy Orlesian stared at the bow-legged tea table that floated in stately silence across the room. The place had once served as an opulent bedchamber — maybe one belonging to a high-born lady, judging from the flowery wallpapers. Now they were faded and tattered, and the room was as dilapidated and vacant as the rest of the ancient manor.

Or maybe not _quite_ vacant. The table continued to hover toward them. The eerie atmosphere was only slightly broken by the pounding of hammers and hissing of saws from downstairs.

The Orlesian noble grew whiter with each passing moment. The dwarven merchant beside him hummed in fascination. The dwarf's big, silent bodyguard, armored from head to toe, just stared at the offending piece of furniture through the slits of his pot helmet.

When the floating table suddenly clattered to the floor tiles in front of them, the Orlesian jumped.

"_Merde!"_

With a smooth gesture the dwarf produced a chair for the noble to slump on. The man groaned in despair.

"Horrible, horrible! Exorcists are so expensive! I will have to withhold the payment for the workers. Bride of the Maker, _everything_ has to be put on hold! _Sacre me..._"

Suddenly their breath started to fume. The noble swiveled on his chair, looking for more unnaturally behaving furniture, but only frost appeared on the walls and broken-down decorations, as the temperature quickly plummeted.

The dwarf shook his head, not without compassion. "I'm afraid a normal exorcist won't do you much good, messere. This is not your typical haunting. This house was once occupied by a powerful Tevinter magister, and magisters can't blow their nose without blood magic."

"Blood magic?" the Orlesian cried.

"It is a well known fact that the Veil is thin in Kirkwall, and the unnatural spellcraft practiced in this house has weakened it even further. In this room, it is almost non-existent. The virgin sacrifices —"

"_Virgin sacrifices?"_

"— still manifest here. A blood magic haunting cannot be exorcised by normal means. Messere, I am afraid that —"

An invisible hand yanked the chair from under the nobleman, who yelped and fell on his arse.

"— you have been well and thoroughly swindled."

The dwarf observed in emphatic silence as his bodyguard helped the Orlesian to his feet. The man was so dumbfounded that it took a while before he could commence complaining.

"This is a disaster. A disaster!"

"So you have already paid for the house, messere?"

"Yes, the city officials demanded payment in cash." As startled as the Orlesian had been by the manifestations, the real reason for his distress was becoming quickly apparent. "They said there's someone they'd like to get rid of in this house, and that was the reason for the low price. But I never thought... a ghost!"

"Ah, no, I have heard of this... vagrant." The dwarf sighed. "A very murderous and strange individual indeed, not to be scared off by a haunting."

"This cannot be accepted! I will sue! I will take this to the... the... _Sacre me!_"

The dwarven merchant raised his brows, as the noble tore his hair at the hopelessness of his situation.

"Who can I turn to? You barbarians do not even have a ruler! I am ruined, ruined!"

"You will have to go to Knight-Commander Meredith, I'm afraid."

"The Knight-Commander? It will take weeks before I can get an audience! If she will even agree to see me!"

The dwarf seemed to think for a moment. Then he sighed, puffing out a great cloud of frost. "Well, it's definitely not what I planned but — what if I take this place out of your hands, messere?"

The Orlesian, now shivering with cold, frowned as he looked at the dwarf. He considered the matter for a few seconds. Then he groaned, apparently realizing it did not serve his interests to be overly suspicious. "You would, serah?"

The dwarf shrugged. "I have a... penchant... for such phenomena. How much did you pay for this pile of trash?"

The Orlesian named a sum — if its reasonable level was anything to go by, he was too shaken to even try to play the situation to his advantage.

A short haggling followed, with a few mentions toward the already started renovations and the wages of the workers involved. After a few minutes, a sum was decided upon, and the deal was sealed with a handshake and exchange of keys, with the understanding that a more formal document would be written and signed later at the Dwarven Merchant's Guild. The Orlesian fled to gather his workers and, presumably, to find a less ghastly place to reside in during his business trips to Kirkwall.

When the sounds of work had quieted and the last pair of feet had pattered out of the house, Hawke pulled the pot helmet from his head, and sighed in relief. The temperature was already returning to normal.

"I hate these tin suits," the mage said and, despite the recent unnatural coldness, wiped sweat from his brow. "I feel like a lobster in a kettle. Just need a nice fireball to set me simmering."

Varric jingled the shining set of new keys in his broad hand, and stared at the innocent looking old tea table near them. "By the smelly socks of my ancestors. I wasn't sure even you could do it, Hawke."

"I couldn't have talked and done that at the same time."

"Still. What an enterprising mind couldn't do with your skills and a bit of imagination. It's positively terrifying."

Hawke put his helmet on the table. "Thank you, Varric. I owe you one. Again."

"Actually, Hawke, you owe me three hundred and fifty, sovereigns that is. A ridiculously low price, all things considered, but still a bit above what I can pull out of my pocket in a pinch."

"I'll have it delivered by tomorrow."

Varric took a sharp look at Hawke, who was looking out of the window. "Oh? Just like that? How many properties do you own in Hightown, exactly?"

"Um. A few. The prices are bound to soar once we have a new Viscount," Hawke added, as if embarrassed at his business deals.

"And you can magic up three hundred and fifty sovereigns in a day?"

"Well, if I ever find myself short on change, I can just mortgage Fenris."

Varric shook his head. "Fine. But don't expect me to ever buy you a single pint again, Hawke. Anyway. It's been fun, but I have things to take care of. See you later at the Hanged Man? And, oh, you're probably going to need these."

Hawke, who had been pacing around the room, examining the peeling wall papers with a cursory interest, turned toward the dwarf to catch the keys tossed his way.

"A favor, Varric? Please don't tell Fenris."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't breathe a word even if you asked. The elf doesn't just kill messengers, sometimes he tortures them. But mark my words, he's going to find out sooner or later, anyway."

After the dwarf was gone, Hawke spent a while just walking around the mansion.

It had been years since he'd last been here and the condition of the place had definitely not improved. The roof and the floors had collapsed even more, and now allowed rain to freely decay the building. It was getting truly dangerous to walk in some places. Mold and mushrooms could be seen growing in the dampest spots. Strange sounds were created by wind passing through the structures of the house.

After a while Hawke stopped wondering why it had been so easy to trick the Orlesian into believing the place was haunted. Instead he started to marvel how he'd managed to persuade any workers through the doors in the first place.

Fenris's room upstairs was empty, cleared for renovations. Hawke found his things in the hall on the ground floor, piled with trash that was waiting to be hauled away. There they were, locked chests and books and tools and nick-knacks peeking out from heaps of broken furniture, faded carpets and debris of torn-away floors and wall paneling, covered in sawdust and grit.

A pile of yellowed parchment was lying close to Hawke's feet. He picked one up. There were lines of writing on one side — the hand was unrefined, but precise, as if drawn rather than written, slowly and painstakingly rendered in an attempt to hide the writer's inexperience.

"_To Varania,_

_I can not write Arcanum, forgive me. I can not remember you or mother Danerius he wiped my memories. Can you prove you are my sister? I have to be suspecious. You tell very little in your letter. Howe I can trust you? I can not I am a fool —"_

The last sentence was impatiently written and almost illegible, the rest of the letter covered with an ink blot.

It was easy for Hawke to imagine Fenris groaning and tossing the paper away after an hour or more of work, frustrated at having to doubt and second-guess each word and its spelling.

It was truly amazing that the elf could write so well after just a few months of teaching by Isabela. But he would not see it that way himself, would he? He'd berate himself for every mistake and hesitation. Fenris was one of the most intuitive people Hawke knew, but intuition helped little when translating one's thoughts on paper. Despite his quick mind Fenris was a doer, not a thinker, and writing was an exercise for the intellect.

Just another thing to set them apart. Hawke couldn't even remember when he hadn't known how to read and write.

What kind of a student had Fenris made? Impatient and touchy? Or determined to get over his shortcomings as quickly as possible? Hawke could imagine Isabela making Fenris practice on the most lurid books she could find. How she'd listen for hours at his beautiful deep voice spell out terrible double entendres, and tease him mercilessly, always there at his elbow, smiling just so. And inevitably her proximity would affect him, too, awaken him to her presence and to the warm, soft, brown skin within his reach —

And Hawke really had to stop imagining these thing.

It was rare for Hawke to feel guilt, but for once he did. These weren't his things, this wasn't his home. He was spying on something private, something that wasn't his to see.

He dropped the abandoned letter, put on the helmet he'd been carrying under his arm, and made his way to the front door, where he spent a while wondering what to do about the new locks.

He couldn't break them, could he? But leaving the door open would have been suspicious, too.

In the end he just went out and locked the door. It _was_ his house, now, wasn't it? Even if he never intended to use it. Fenris undoubtedly knew how to enter the place through other means.

Hawke dropped the keyring in a pouch at his waist, and sauntered down the street in his armor, just another private guard on his way to duty. With any luck, the ill-tempered bastard would never find out what had happened.

o o o

Two days later, Varric was just trying to invent a witty denouement for the latest chapter of his guard-templar romance _Swords and Shields_, when Fenris stormed into his suite without knocking.

"Dwarf. Do you happen to know why my mansion is vacant again?"

The elf's voice was the kind he used when planning to acquaint himself with someone's innards. Varric set his quill aside and laced his fingers.

_I knew it was a bad idea._

"Broody! What happened? And why do you think I had anything to do with it?"

Fenris crossed the room, planted his gloved hands on the table, and leaned over it toward Varric. The fact that he was wearing his town clothes instead of the usual spiky armor had only a negligible effect on how threatening he looked. "I met a man who worked for whoever bought the house. He told me that a _dwarf_ came to visit his employer before they were told to leave. And there was something funny about this dwarf. He had _no beard_."

"Oh." Varric leaned back in his chair.

Fenris straightened. "They also told me that this dwarf was accompanied by an armored bodyguard. He was, let me quote, 'built like a brick outhouse'. Who could that have been, I wonder?"

Seemed like it was useless to pretend. Also potentially dangerous. "I told Hawke you'd find out."

"Of course I found out! I'm not an idiot!"

Varric gave the elf his most placating smile. It didn't seem to have much effect.

Well, at least Fenris wasn't glowing.

"Elf... Fenris... please, sit down. Can I offer you a drink?"

"You think this is a _social call?_"

Varric pushed back his chair and headed for the liquor cabinet. "No, but I think we should talk. That's what friends do, right?"

"Friends? I asked you not to interfere, and you ignored me! Is that something _friends_ do?"

"When necessary, yes." Varric poured some of Zevran's liquor into two glasses, considered, and poured more into one of them. He returned to the table, placed the glasses on it — the smaller measure for himself — and climbed back into his chair.

"Take a seat."

"No!"

Varric sighed, and frowned at Fenris. He very rarely frowned at anyone, and the surprise of it was usually enough to make his opponents lose their momentum. Fenris proved no exception.

"_Sit_, Fenris."

The elf unbuckled his baldric, placed his oversized sword against the table, and grudgingly fell into a chair. Muttering Tevinter oaths, he took the glass and drank, and grimaced.

"_Fasta vass!_ What _is_ this? Are you trying to poison me?"

Varric sipped from his own glass. "Just in the friendliest sense imaginable, elf. It'll put hair on your chest."

Fenris refrained from making any of the obvious jokes, and cursed instead. Then he took a deep breath, and emptied the glass.

"Is there more?"

Varric fetched what remained of the bottle and handed it over. "Just take it easy. Shorty brought it and there's more than moonshine in it."

"Madcap?" Fenris filled his glass, tossed back another shot, and blinked. "Tevinters... love this stuff. Not that I was ever allowed. But Danarius used to drink it when he —"

"When he what?" Varric asked when Fenris fell silent.

"Never mind. Was there something you wanted to say?"

Varric settled down again, and laced his thick fingers on top of the table. "Just that you're wrong, elf."

The look of irritation, again. "Oh? About what?"

Varric took a deep breath. If he was going to get himself mutilated in a fit of glowing rage, better get it over with. "About not being an idiot. You _are_ an idiot. So is Hawke, for the record."

Fenris glared, and Varric braced himself for a biting retort.

To his surprise, however, the elf just stared for a moment, then poured himself more of the Antivan liquor.

"And does this mean you know better, then?" The words were delivered in an abrasive voice, but they did not completely dismiss what Varric had said.

"Well, I'm starting to think that _Isabela_ has the right idea, when she says the two of you should be locked in a room and the key tossed away until you either kill each other or... work around your differences. I don't necessarily want to hang outside the window while you're at it, but otherwise I think she has a point."

Fenris pressed the glass to his forehead. "_Venhedis..._ Not this again."

"So, you've heard of this scenario?"

"Only almost every day since we returned to Kirkwall."

"Well, there you go."

It seemed like the potent liquor was starting to have its effect. The elf sat back in his chair a little, and the lines on his face evened ever so slightly. "We're talking about a woman who once wrote a story about Maferath betraying Andraste because he wanted to be Hessarian's butt boy. And you take something she says seriously?"

"She's not a — well, all right, she's a pervert and thinks you and Hawke together are the hottest thing after handcuffs and whipped cream, but she's not all bad. Sometimes she has the right idea about these things. If a bit more... vivid than it needs to be."

"Yes, she's the big bad pirate with the heart of gold. I think I know her better than you do, little man."

Varric sighed. "Why did you get so angry anyway? It doesn't make sense. Most people would be grateful for such a... well placed... acquaintance who actually wants to help you."

There was a dangerous glint in the elf's eye. "Would they? I am not most people. I spent what I assume is half my life having my decisions made for me. And you expect me to like it, how Hawke manages my affairs?"

"Well, when you put it that way..."

Fenris emptied his glass again. Varric tapped his thick finger against his mouth.

"Slow down, Broody. That's not your ordinary Orlesian mint tea."

Fenris blinked. Then, all of a sudden, he chuckled. "Did you say Zevran brought this? The insufferable twit might be good for something, after all."

Varric was not altogether convinced it was a good thing that the elf's mood was suddenly taking a complete turnabout. He was starting to look... well, not drunk, exactly, just different. Madcap had a different effect on every person and in Fenris's case it seemed to be something dangerous.

Varric started sliding his hand toward the bottle. "Listen, elf, why don't we just —"

Fenris turned toward him. Varric didn't like the way his eyes gleamed. "Know what, dwarf? You are right." He stood up.

"Eh... about what?"

The elf polished off the rest of his fifth glass. "I'm going to seize the moment. _Astia vala femundis._"

"What? Now?"

"Why not? I'm an adult. So is Hawke. We'll talk. Civilized people talk, don't they? Or so I've heard."

"Elf, you just drank enough madcap to fell a cow."

"Good." Fenris burped against his fist.

"It's not even all in your stomach yet!"

"Even better. I was getting bored of being sober."

"Um. Hawke is probably not even home. It's his 'let's kick puppies with the Knight-Commander' day. The one he seems to have every day, now."

"Then I need something to entertain me while I wait." Fenris snatched away the bottle before Varric could reach it and tucked it under his arm. "Thank you for the chat, dwarf. I feel much better now."

Varric was running out of ways to keep Fenris from running off in a very unpredictable condition.

"In case you decide to storm the Gallows and get yourself hanged, I'd like to remind you that you owe me no less than five sovereigns."

"I'm good for it." Fenris started toward the door, then remembered his sword, and returned to retrieve it.

He almost walked into a doorpost on his way out.

Varric considered getting up, running after the elf and stunning him with a miasmic flask. Maybe he'd manage to tie up the maniac and stow him in a corner until the drugs wore off. But that wouldn't work, would it? Fenris would just phase out of the restraints and storm away, more pissed off than when he'd arrived.

Varric had a bad feeling about the feverish gleam he'd seen in the elf's eyes.

He shook his head and turned to look where Bianca rested on the mantel, silent and calm — her lovingly polished arms pulled against her voluptuously curving stock, every piece of brass shining.

"What have I done this time, baby?" he moaned. "Some day this big mouth of mine is going to get me into trouble. Ah, I really should have run after him, shouldn't I?"

Bianca, as always, refrained from stating the obvious.

o o o

It was already late in the evening when the Champion finally saw Queen Celeste's delegation off on their way back to Orlais.

Most of the delegation had eventually lost hope of ever getting a confession out of the Champion, and with it their interest in him had waned. But the slender, red-haired young Sister Hawke had been curious about did not seem overly concerned. She'd disappeared for a couple of days, only to join them again this morning, and when her companions had not confronted her about her absence, Hawke's suspicions about her purpose in Kirkwall had only grown stronger.

"You are an interesting man, Champion," the woman — Sister Annabelle, or so she'd been introduced when they met— said to him before they parted ways on the pier. "I wish we can meet again. But then again, I wish we do not, because it might mean something bad has happened."

Hawke looked around. The other Orlesians were already filing to the boat that would take them to their ship on the bay. "What you mean is that the Divine might send you back if there's trouble in Kirkwall," he said in a low voice. "Probably with an entourage of... quite another sort."

Her blue eyes glinted. "Well, then. Can I... ask you to do something for me, since we are inclined to drop the pretenses for a moment?"

"I know what people say about me, but it's a bit late to ask for a back rub, isn't it?"

The woman gave a surprisingly girlish giggle, then sobered. "The whole world is watching Kirkwall, Champion. If it falls to magic, the Divine's wrath will be terrible. War will consume us, and demand many lives. Please, messere... I worry for Elthina. Talk to her. Tell her there is refuge for her in the grand cathedral in Val Royeaux. She will not be safe here."

"Who should I say sent me? I assume Sister Annabelle is just something you picked from a ballad."

She smiled. "My name is Leliana."

"Surely not... _the_ Leliana? The one who helped the Hero of Ferelden stop the Blight?"

She chuckled. Suddenly something in her eyes belied her age. She was not nearly as young as she seemed. "It is a common enough name in Orlais, messere Hawke."

"The Leliana I was thinking of would know someone called Zevran Arainai, who just happens to be here in Kirkwall," Hawke mused.

She blushed most becomingly. "Oh, this Leliana would, wouldn't she? Also, perhaps, someone called Isabela. They might in fact have met, and... talked of things long gone. But this is all, of course, purely hypothetical."

Hawke glanced at the boat. The other delegates had almost finished getting in. "I assume that this discussion is also hypothetical?"

Again that pretty, secretive smile. He'd never felt drawn to the willowy, girlish types, but she reminded him of his sister. Perhaps not Bethany's innocence, but how she had appeared delicate to outsiders, with her strength kept guarded underneath. "Yes, very hypothetical. But life is not hypothetical, is it? In the end, the unknown will claim us all, as we go to the Maker's side. Our existence on this plane is too short to wonder about what might have been. Do you not agree, Champion?"

Without waiting for a reply, she inclined her head, and turned to follow her companions onto the boat.

As Hawke slowly made his way back from the docks, once again eschewing the sedan chairs he so hated, he found himself thinking of her words.

A war was coming. He could not continue to lie to himself about what caused the mental imbalance that now sometimes made it hard to control his steadily growing magic.

He owed it to himself to settle his matters, didn't he? Even if it meant burying forever some things that were so hard to let go, his whole being cringed at the thought of confronting them.

He asked for directions and found the Lucky Shard. The place was every bit as horrid as Varric had implied. But the landlord said he hadn't seen the irritable white-haired elf since the night before. He was not at the Hanged Man, either; even Varric was gone, for once.

The sun was already setting by the time Hawke gave up and made his way back to Hightown, wondering how to keep up his resolve until tomorrow, or the day after, assuming he'd find Fenris eventually. _We need to talk about what happened three years ago. _That would be easy enough to say, wouldn't it? _We need to talk. _Just a few simple words. He'd improvise from there. Even if Fenris seemed to completely deprive him of every ounce of wit, he'd find... something to say. And even if they fought, it would be better than silence, wouldn't it?

Near the gate to his estate, he was stopped by a woman's cry. As he turned to look, he saw a sedan chair halt and lower to the ground. A young noblewoman stepped from it, a babe on her arms. Her cloak and puffy gown swirled around her as she half walked, half ran toward him.

It was already getting dark, the street mostly lit by the faint yellow light of nearby lanterns and windows, but Hawke was wearing his Champion's uniform and chain and even in half darkness he was easy enough to recognize.

She knelt at his feet, not caring that her silk skirts were soiled by dust and grime. Her eyes filled with tears and distress, she lifted her swaddled infant toward him.

"Please, Champion... they say your touch brings luck."

He stared at her, astonished. She mistook his silence for displeasure, and bowed her head.

"I beg you, messere. I have lost three already. I cannot lose another. My husband will throw me out, disown me..."

He realized he had no choice. To lecture her on superstition was unthinkable. To simply reject her would be worse.

He'd rarely felt as foolish as when he placed his large, callused hand on the child's tiny head as if to bless it. The babe opened its eyes and peered at him. It was barely a month old, tightly swaddled in the Orlesian custom. A boy. The young mother was still looking at his feet, and Hawke risked the tiniest lick of magic. It would have taken a better healer than him to be certain, but the child seemed normal, not ailed by whatever had taken away its siblings.

"You have a healthy son, ma'am."

When she looked up again, he could see that she was now crying in earnest. "Thank you, Champion! Thank you! Please... please know that you have my family's support. We will stand behind you against... against _her_."

"Even though I'm..." He allowed his surprised words to trail off.

A primitive fear flashed in her eyes. Then she shuddered and drew the infant against her corseted breast. "You saved us, Champion. You would not harm us. There are many families who think the same, who will swear fealty... who will not betray you."

A moment later she was again on her way, and he turned back toward home.

She was not the first to voice her sympathy. But she was not like the ones before, parvenu, or from a rare house that had Fereldan ties or magic running in it. She could trace her family back to the Orlesian occupation; years ago, her kind had done everything they could to prevent him from buying back the Amell estate and settling in Hightown.

_How crazy must this city already be, for even the old blood to think that an apostate foreigner would best lead it?_

"A touching scene," he heard a deep voice drawl from nearby, and whipped around.

Fenris was standing at a shadowed corner of his estate, his shoulder against the plastered stone wall, white hair hanging over his eyes. He was wearing the sword on his back, and the clothes chosen for him by Isabela — the white doublet and leather jerkin and tight breeches, and gaiters that, as always, left his feet bare. There was a bottle of something or other in his gloved hand — but Hawke had already heard from his voice that he was hardly sober.

_We need to talk about what happened three years ago._

At the sight of the elf, the words stuck like a thick wad of wool in Hawke's throat.

"Gathering followers already?" Fenris pushed himself away from the wall, and swayed. "Why do I ask. Of course you are. You want to be Viscount. What a thought. An apostate, leading a state. Where have I heard that one before?"

"Ahh, I —" Hawke cleared his throat. "I've been looking for you, Fenris."

Fenris's teeth flashed in something that could not quite be called a smile. "And I have been waiting for you, Hawke. Fortuitous, yes?"

"You have?" Hawke felt unreal. "Why?"

"To pay you back." Fenris seemed to have trouble staying on his feet, and stumbled back to lean against the wall. "Tell me. Where should we do it?"

"Excuse me?" Even in a less strange situation, the words would hardly have made any sense.

Fenris gestured at himself, then toward the side alley. "In there? Or should we go to your basement again? What about here on the street? It's not like I care, once we get started. Let's give your neighbors something to talk about, yes?"

Hawke pulled himself to his full height and frowned. "What in the Fade are you talking about, Fenris?"

"Are you deaf? I said already. Paying you back." Fenris hiccuped against his gloved fist. "Do not pretend you can't understand me. You still want me, don't you?"

Hawke opened his mouth — and closed it.

Suddenly there didn't seem to be enough space in his head for all the blood that rushed in.

His eyes traveled the tall elf from head to bare toe, against his will taking in how the clothes hugged his slender, strong body, how even in his current state Fenris somehow managed to appear graceful and dangerous, like a drugged big cat.

"You're drunk," he said, finally, his voice flat.

"Observant." Hooded green eyes fixed on Hawke's burning face, Fenris lifted his hand to the collar of his jerkin.


	27. Chapter 27

Fenris was so drunk that he had trouble opening the high collar of his jerkin. (The endeavor wasn't made any easier by the fact that he had an ominously familiar-looking bottle in his hand.) The flickering, yellow light of a nearby lantern played on his hair and glinted in the brass buckles, buttons and eyelets of his town clothes. His eyes were glued on Hawke and the Champion could tell that the failing light was not the only reason they seemed unsteady and feverish.

"Paying me back?" Hawke said, trying to gather his wits. "What on Thedas do you need to pay me back for?"

"My humble abode. What else?"

_...shit. He found out._

_But does he know that I bought it? Or just that I scared the buyer away?_

Suddenly it all made a little more sense. But just a little. Hawke still had a very inebriated elf trying to strip in front of his house. Emphasis on _trying_, but Fenris was nothing if not determined. And even just the attempt succeeded in something that Hawke's most vocal opponents in Kirkwall politics had failed to achieve — throwing him completely off balance.

"Here? Like that? Are you mad?"

Fenris looked left and right, unsteady on his feet. "Well, I already said we can go to that alley, if you don't want to stick your cock in my arse where your neighbors can see."

Shocked, Hawke glanced around the nighttime square, overshadowed by the massive stairs and bronze-topped columns of the Viscount's Keep. The place was definitely less vacant than he'd have liked with an insane elf making a scene at him. Sedan chairs and pedestrians kept trickling by and Hawke was certain he noticed several ill-concealed stares. Not for the first time he cursed his easily recognizable stature and Champion's uniform. He didn't really need warm overclothes, but maybe he should start wearing something nondescript nonetheless? Like a hooded cloak. A hooded cloak would have been nice right now, to cover his blush.

When he turned back, Fenris had managed to undo several more buttons. The elf yanked at his collar, and it hung open to reveal the long column of his neck and the lyrium embedded in its dusky skin, the lines of it as white as the frothy linen of his shirt. They seemed so delicate, yet Hawke knew they were not; he knew all too well how they felt to touch... unyielding, slightly coarse... humming with power.

"Come on. Isn't this what you want?" Fenris's voice was still far too loud for Hawke's peace of mind.

He gritted his teeth. "Is this your fucked-up idea of revenge?"

"Revenge? For what?" Fenris spread his arms, wobbling dangerously. "You've done more for me than anyone! I'll be in your debt to the Veil and beyond! There's literally nothing in my life you haven't touched. _Hawke's pet._ I might as well have that tattooed on my forehead and be done with it!"

"Maker. You're pissed as a post in a mabari pound."

"A fitting choice of words."

Not bothering to ask what _that_ was supposed to mean, Hawke took the five or so steps that separated them and snatched the bottle from the elf's hand. Fenris flinched — just a little, but not little enough for Hawke not to notice.

_It's just drunken raving. He can't even stand me near him, can he?_

Hawke brought the nearly empty container to his nostrils and immediately yanked it away, coughing at the pungent stink of Zevran's 'happy water'. Muttering something about roasting Varric's fuzzy arse from Kirkwall to Orzammar, he tossed the bottle away, and it cracked against the pavement, to be later picked up by the elven retainers who every morning swept the square.

When he turned back, Fenris was watching him sidelong from where he leaned against the wall.

"There was a time you'd have done it."

"What the —" Hawke paused to control his temper, and continued in almost a whisper. "All right. Maybe. But I haven't done anything inappropriate in years."

_Not that you wouldn't like to, _a nasty inner voice said. _What if this had happened in private?_

"Peh. You're just afraid that these sheep will see."

The words landed a bit too close for comfort. Alcohol never seemed to dull Fenris's wits the way it compromised his judgment and physical prowess. At moments like this, it was a bit unfortunate.

"If I didn't know better, I might think you actually _wanted_ me to do something," Hawke said.

"Excuse me? There must be something wrong with my hearing. Now you suddenly _care_ about what I want?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hawke said through his teeth. "Even if I didn't, I have some self preservation left. I don't exactly enjoy the idea of having my brains turned into a pulp inside my head."

"Coward." Fenris pushed himself from the wall and staggered closer. His pride childishly offended, Hawke resisted the urge to retreat, and pulled to his full height, towering over the elf who was by no means short himself.

The weakness of his decision to stay put became evident when Fenris leaned against him, to wobble on bare toes next to Hawke's heavy jackboots, and whisper in his ear. The gloved hands pressing to Hawke's chest and the heated purr of the elf's deep voice sent a hot flush down his spine.

"Do not feign virtues you do not possess, Hawke. I know you still have it in you. And you know I can take it. No need to hold back. You still want to throw me around, don't you, fuck me until I —"

Hawke pressed his hand to the back of Fenris's head and whispered a word. The elf shuddered in surprise. Then his eyes rolled back. He slumped against the taller man, kept from sliding to the pavement only by a pair of strong arms wrapped around him.

"Maker's breath," Hawke whispered, his voice strangled.

_Close. Too close._ He was sweating and hard. Bloody Void, he was _shaking_.

Well, at least there was little chance of accidental skin contact, with both of them heavily clothed.

For a while Hawke just stood there with the elf's shaggy white head on his shoulder, trying to control his racing pulse and decide the least obtuse way to resolve what was definitely a moronic situation to find himself in.

He didn't know how long the entropy spell would keep Fenris dazed. Normally it ran its course in minutes, but Fenris was already drunk with alcohol and madcap and might well stay senseless for quite a while longer. Even so, better to resolve this quickly... just the _how_ of it kept eluding Hawke, and not least because his mind had apparently been turned into mush.

There was no way he could take Fenris to _his_ house. The lights in the upper-storey windows told him that Marcia was home, most likely with friends over for the evening. The idea of trying to explain a spectacularly rat-arsed elf to his wife and her little circle was... mortifying. But he had to do something. Preferably fast. There had been a time when openly pawing someone at his door would have mattered little, but those days were long gone.

With a defeated sigh Hawke slung Fenris's arm across his shoulders and set a course toward the elf's home, finding to his relief that Fenris was at least still able to shuffle his feet in what was approximately the correct direction.

o o o

After being almost run over by several sedan chairs, enduring endless curious stares and having to knock Fenris out again (prompted by how the elf had suddenly woken up, too blitzed to know where he was and with whom, and started glowing in a rather alarming manner), the rundown mansion finally loomed over them. In the dark it looked truly foreboding with its wreath of ivy and cracked windows glowering at the street with hollow, black disapproval. After ensuring that the elf was still too far gone to notice anything, Hawke fished in his belt pouch for the keys, and let himself into the cold, dark, silent house.

After closing the door behind him, Hawke flicked a finger and a dim white spell-glow appeared. In its shallow light he made his way down the front corridor.

For the first time it occurred to him to wonder what he'd do after finding some place to dump the elf in. Could he just leave and trust that Fenris would survive the aftereffects of the spell? Staying around to help might not be conducive to avoiding more scenes or a broken nose — Fenris would probably have preferred being mugged or thrown into the gaol to how he'd been 'helped' by Hawke.

Just when they were about to enter the main hall, Fenris moaned softly, and stirred against Hawke's shoulder. There was no way he could be stunned the third time, not without risking brain damage. Unfortunately this meant Hawke would soon be in the vicinity of a very confused elf who also happened to be a highly efficient killer. He quickened his step.

Perhaps his haste was the reason he was less prepared than normal for what happened next.

On stepping into the front hall, Hawke immediately knew something was wrong — even before he heard the light scuffle of feet from the balcony directly above. Normally the sound would have sent him leaping back into the the corridor. Now he only had time to toss Fenris there. The elf rolled on the floor with a muffled groan, still half unconscious.

There was a flicker of shadow above, and something landed on Hawke. Weights rattled around his legs and down he went, tangled in a loose-eyed rope net.

More sounds of movement, now. Well-tended armor creaked softly and then at least five pairs of heavy boots hit the tiled floor.

"Good evening, serah. The previous owner of this property sends his greetings," a female voice said from the shadows with the familiar detached cadences of a professional killer.

Hawke thought quickly. _Previous owner. The Orlesian?_

It seemed like Fenris wasn't the only one who'd put together two and two.

But did they intend to kill him, or just beat him up? Hawke was not sure whether he could risk guessing wrong. His little spell-glow had been extinguished and the space around him was now only lit by weak moonlight from the broken windows. Thus his opponents were probably not aware that they were facing a mage... of if they were, that he'd long ago learned to cast most spells without his staff.

Whether he could afford to do so without actually killing his opponents was another matter entirely. For three years already Hawke had only used his magic on Meredith's command, or when he was certain she would not find out. He was not looking forward to what happened if the Knight-Commander decided to try and turn him tranquil.

All of this did not bode well for the mercs now closing in on him, as he lay on the floor, trying to look nonthreatening while untangling his limbs beneath the net.

"Whatever he's paying, I'll double it," he said, trying to sound timid — not something he excelled at.

The woman whom Hawke's mind had already labelled as the leader of this party barked a cold laugh from where she was standing behind her men.

"And how long, serah, do you think we would be in the business if we accepted such offers?"

Hawke had not really expected his proposition to be accepted. He just needed time. And it seemed to work; the mercs had stopped and were watching him with their weapons drawn and armor glinting in the faint moonlight. Hawke quickly counted them and mapped their positions in his head.

Then he heard a dragging sound from the corridor. Fenris moaned louder than before, perhaps gradually waking up to the horrible headache that resulted from being magically stunned. In the darkness Hawke saw the black silhouette that had to be the merc leader's head turn toward the sound.

_No..!_

"Do not be hasty. Maybe we can reach some other kind of agreement."

"This is pointless," the woman said and raised her hand. A spell-light not unlike Hawke's extinguished one appeared in it, to spread its dim glow around them, all the way to where Hawke was laying on the floor.

Was the magic hers, or had she paid for it? Such lights were prepared by apostates for purchase, highly illegal, but many still used them. Hawke didn't recall the telltale sound of a breaking piece of wood that released such stored spells, but that didn't mean much.

In the pale white glow Hawke saw that the merc swordsmen were equipped in some Coterie offshoot's splintmail and chain, clearly of high quality, nothing like ordinary thugs would wear. The leader behind them wore much lighter armor — just leather, not even a helm over her short red hair. A rapier and a dagger were still sheathed at her waist. She didn't look like a mage, but then again, neither did he.

That he could see them also meant that they could see him. The mercenary leader's almost bored expression was jarred into sharp alarm.

"Shit! It's the Champion! Kill them!" she cried.

Her men rushed forward.

Hawke mouthed a word. A _whump_ of energy blasted through him and swept the attackers back several feet, felling several of them to the floor, cracking ribs and bruising. Before the mercs could recover, he had set two of them on fire with another spell he'd prepared while stalling. The men thrashed on the floor and screamed, consumed by unnatural greenish flames that threw the hall into ghostly relief and instantly heated its air.

Four swordsmen remained. Behind them, their leader was weaving her hands and moving her mouth in an ominous pattern.

Well, that answered the question of whether or not she was a mage.

Hawke had no time to set up barriers. The spell crackled forth from the Fade and hit him like a blow across the face. The protective glyph he now always had primed on him splintered the hostile magic into a bruise-colored cloud of energy, but the glyph had only one charge in it, and now he'd have to handle the remaining swordsmen and their leader while still trapped in the net and stripped of his defenses.

Two more men went down with an ice spell from another instant cast. A layer of frost swept across the floor and immediately melted into slush from the heat of magic fire. One of the remaining two swordsmen slipped in it and crashed down and was caught by the flames, but another just skidded across and raised his sword. Once more Hawke reached into the Fade and the man's face exploded into red mist. Without a mouth left to scream, the merc started to fall, the sword still poised in his hand.

Hawke rolled aside, in passing sensing an ominous impact against his thigh.

Only the mage was left, now. Hawke twisted on the floor to see her. She was staring at him over her dead and injured men, bewildered, too surprised by the quick sequence of destruction to even be really afraid, yet. Then her eyes widened as she saw her own death on Hawke's face.

Both raised their hands and spoke.

Flames burst from the merc leader's eyes, ears and mouth. She was dead before she hit the floor.

Hawke slumped back, panting from the merciless rhythm of casting. His skin felt raw and burning from the force of magic that had been pushed through it in what couldn't have been more than twelve seconds.

Around him the mercs that still clung to their lives coughed and wept and whimpered.

Hawke's mind swam. Somehow he managed to struggle out of the net. Swaying, he tried to push to his feet, and found himself on his hands and knees, black spots swirling in his vision. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

A strange numbness was spreading through him. To his horror he recognized the deceptive allure of entropy magic. _Bitch managed to set one off, after all._ He tried to dispel it but almost blacked out, and the counterspell fizzled — he was being drained of mana fast, and getting too dizzy to fight it.

He made another attempt to get up. His hands slipped on the tiles. There was something slick and sticky beneath him, something that seemed almost black in the greenish red light of the still flickering flames —

_Oh, fuck._

He scrambled away from it and fell onto his back, and reached for his numb legs.

Hot blood poured from the back of his left thigh with every heartbeat.

_Shit, it's deep._

Maker, he was so tired. There were sounds coming from somewhere, but he did not have enough strength to listen —

Groaning, he bent over and closed the wound with what remained of his strength. After, he was nearly too tired to even breathe, and merely blinked his eyes at the shadows above. The green and red lights of the waning spellfire danced in his eyes against the blackness of the room.

A new shadow fell over him. He turned his head to see a man stagger closer — one of the swordsmen with ghastly burns and a shaking sword in his hand. The merc was already dead, with half his face a seething mess of melted flesh and bone, but apparently he was not reconciled enough with his fate not to try and take his killer with him.

Hawke had no mana left to cast, and no strength left to run. He pulled a knife from his belt, knowing he would never get close enough to use it.

The merc lifted his sword. Hawke fought to keep conscious, to at least meet his death awake. How fitting — after felling dragons and ogres and saarebas, he would be sent to the Maker's side by a handful of hired swords and a second-rate mage who could cast two spells to his five. Marcia would go into a fit. And Fenris, what about Fenris? Would this dead man have enough time in him to finish the elf, too? Hawke was nearly too exhausted for emotion, but felt a distant pang of regret, even so.

Then the merc suddenly shuddered and froze. A surprised expression crept upon the ruin of his face. The sword clattered from his hand to the floor, and slowly he fell to his knees and crashed down on his face, a small blade buried to the hilt in his back, carved impossibly straight through his armor.

Then the shadows started spiralling around Hawke. Almost mercifully darkness took his mind at last.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: I had huge problems getting this chapter to show up. It went totally offline for a long while. I panicked and reuploaded. Sorry about double notifications :-(

As always, a big thanks to my beta Elenilote, and all reviewers.

This story is now also mirrored at AO3, in case someone prefers that. The link is in my profile.

* * *

><p><em>That night, while the others danced and sung over their victory, Fenris retreated early to the solitude of his hut.<em>

_The festivities had involved copious amounts of bittersweet fruit beer, served from a communal bowl. Fenris had never been allowed to indulge in alcohol before and while he'd been curious about it, now it was hard to understand why people enjoyed it so much. He felt dizzy and mildly nauseated, and unable to not give in to dark thoughts._

_Once again he contemplated his chances of surviving in the wild._

_It wasn't as if the Fog Warriors were holding him by force. On the contrary; their hospitality would have made it only too easy for him to gather supplies and slip into the night-time jungle. The difficulty of finding a way to return to Minrathous was the only reason he didn't. The Tevinters had been driven out of this area. Maybe some remained further east or west, but they were too far for information of it to have reached the Riverbend village. Also, military operations in other parts of Seheron were probably led by rival magisters, and Fenris had to avoid falling into their hands. For the moment, staying where he was remained the most reasonable choice. Danarius would come for him, eventually — of that he was certain._

_If only it hadn't been so very difficult to just wait._

_Despite knowing it to be useless, he closed his eyes and searched in his mind for the soothing presence of his master. Danarius' absence still felt like an aching hollow within him, even though the blind panic of the early days was mostly gone. But the magister was too far to sense. Danarius had ways of finding his Little Wolf, but Fenris could only sense his master's presence when they were within hearing distance of each other._

_Suddenly he heard light steps of bare feet from outside, and a rustle from the doorway. He opened his eyes to find that the world still swayed around him._

_A slender hand pushed the door cloth aside. For a moment light from the central bonfire pierced the darkness of the hut. Then Kari bowed herself in, and once again sweltering heat descended, as the lithe half-elvhen girl sat down at the other side of the smoldering fire pit. The little monkey slipped in after her and clung to her heel. Instinctively Fenris checked himself to make sure that he wasn't slouching. He already knew that unlike Danarius or Hadriana, she couldn't care less for perfect posture, but the habit was too deep-seated in him to ignore._

"_Why did you leave?" she asked._

_It was harder than normal to put his thoughts into words. "It is all very strange to me," he admitted with openness that could only be explained by his intoxication._

"_Why? Do they not celebrate where you come from?"_

"_Yes, but... I was not allowed."_

_She seemed appalled, but also intrigued. "Did your elders forbid it? Even though they have so much? How selfish of them!"_

_He opened his mouth to explain, then closed it, for he did not know how. The language itself lacked the required words._

_Selfish? What an odd way to look at it. Slaves were foolish and lazy by nature, and had to be kept in check. Even now Fenris could feel his base nature come upon him as the result of his intoxication. He felt indolent, willful and wanton, unable to look away from her._

_Aside from tiny leather briefs and a wealth of softly chiming beads, her sweat was the only thing she wore. Her sleek muscles glowed with warmth, and she smelled of smoke and fruit beer and woman. Not long ago he'd watched her stomp and yell and leap and spin around the fire like the other young warriors, enacting particularly impressive kills over and over. She'd been alien and graceful like a young tigress._

_He'd thought her breathtaking then, and did so now, too. It bothered him, to be so affected. After all he'd seen in his master's service, he'd thought himself beyond such useless stirrings._

"_I dislike your elders. I would not wish to fight for them," she said. "They sound like greedy little children."_

"_Yet I am bound to them."_

_She snorted. "No, you're not. Through blood and death, you're one of us. Your skin.. your speech... White-hair, whether you want it or not, you are _savvath_, and belong with us."_

_She was so young, yet she seemed so unwavering in her simple conviction. In his drunken state he could not help but wonder. What would it be like, to be one of these proud people who bowed to no one..?_

_He nearly shook in realization of what he'd thought. It was forbidden. His place was with his master. These people were little but savages, child-like and ignorant, and Kari in all her feral cleverness was no better. Her words reflected only her inability to look beyond mere appearances, disguised as something sage and profound by her confidence._

_Yet he still found himself unable to look away._

_She leaned forward and slowly crossed the short distance around the fire on her hands and knees. His heart started pounding._

"_You wish to avoid the others?" she whispered. "So be it."_

_She pushed to her knees and placed her hands on his shoulders, and slanted her warm, soft lips to his. And drunk as he was, he couldn't keep from leaning into the touch, his flesh remembering something he couldn't. For a split second he could sense it, how it would feel to reach for another sentient being without either mindless pain or pleasure. Just her warm presence in the dark, skin on skin and a heart beating against another —_

_And then her touch knifed through his flesh._

_He gasped and shivered. Mistaking these signs for something they were not, she pressed closer, and slid a hand to the markings at his neck. He suppressed a groan at the white-hot lance that shot down his spine, and held her waist with hands still covered in the sharp gauntlets. She yelped a little. Then she chuckled in her throat, unaware he was fighting an urge to push her away._

_She kissed him again, open-mouthed and more youthfully eager this time._

"_Why so shy?" she whispered and caressed his face. "Surely you have lain with many women."_

_He blinked, trembling with what now keened with increasing urgency through his nerves. It was impossible for him to please her — but what was he to deny her, to deny her need to know him? Pain was something he'd been taught to take, and take it well... but he was not a woman who could just lie down and take it, she had expectations of him._

_His jerkin was open, now, and her hands traced the hated markings, each whisper of her touch piercing the flesh beneath. He closed his eyes. When her fingers slipped lower, it was all he could do not to phase and kill her on the spot. But his training held. For all appearances his trembles and barely audible groans probably seemed the complete opposite of what he felt._

_She kissed a marking beneath his ear. The slide of her wet tongue against it was like a slow, deep, loving cut of a blade._

_He opened his eyes and with strange clarity saw the little monkey watching them from across the shadowed hut. Its beady black eyes gleamed with detached, alien curiosity._

_His mind started to drift._

_Where was the magister, to heal him now?_

_The memory came to him from so close to the mind-wipe that it was nearly beyond it._

He heard the chattel weep softly as her blood slowly dripped from her pierced carpal veins into a silver bowl.

Danarius observed him being prepared on the rack, frozen by pain and magic into a relief of muscle and tendon. Blood healing kept the long incisions on his left arm and shoulder open without bleeding.

"Impressive," his master said to someone he could not see. "So much pain, yet he remains conscious on his own. I've never seen the like."

For a moment Danarius watched in silence again, pale gray eyes following closely each turn of the scalpel the apprentice made in the delicate design. A cool mountain wind that came in from the open windows made the magister's long robes whisper around his scarecrow frame. The room around them was bathed in soft morning light.

Maintaining the required spells with what appeared like ease, Danarius spoke again.

"The problem with the ritual, as I learned in my experiments, is that not all can survive it. I chose this one not only for his skills, but because he's strong. When he serviced me, it took much to make him cry out or weep. Even when I could have killed him, he never begged. It was remarkable, for one so young."

Despite the magister's words, he would have screamed his throat hoarse a long time ago, had the freezing spell allowed it.

The apprentice maneuvered his hand to work on the palm and the insides of his fingers.

Finally his mind started to go. With relief he at last began to sink into the Fade. But at the first sagging of his eyelids, another spell was invoked. His eyes opened wide, clear with terror and rage. Danarius smiled at him through the veil of agony.

"Sweet boy. We have only just begun."

_The lyrium came alive with a blinding flash. Something hit the far wall and the impact rattled mud and wattle from the low ceiling. Another presence screeched in the darkness as it scurried out of the way._

_Panting hard, Fenris drew up, every muscle taut and trembling, markings singing with pain. Like a cornered beast he retreated and crouched ready to defend himself._

_The half-elf girl twisted to look at him where she'd fallen. "You would —!" she began, then fell silent at his expression, at how he breathed too fast and deep._

"_What's wrong?" she asked, guarded._

_The lyrium swirled and hummed. Fenris shook his head like a great dog, still heaving in great lungfuls of air. A terrible nausea was rising in him. Sweat flowed freely down his skin. In his mind, the magister still smiled._

Such a proud creature. I look forward to seeing what I can make of him when he's broken.

_A groan escaped his throat. His insides roiled and he clutched at his chest. He could not breathe —_

"_White-hair!" she cried, and scrambled to her knees. But he was already collapsing on the ground, losing consciousness._

o o o

Hawke woke up to someone shaking him like a sack of beans.

Or, to be more exact, the shaking was what roused him from his torpor. By the time he actually woke up, he was already wrestling said someone beneath him and invoking the first words of a spell. Despite no longer being twenty, the Champion of Kirkwall did still possess the instincts that had kept him alive through the shadier parts of his personal history.

Something was wrong, however. The power that flowed into him from the Fade felt distorted and the spell was unstable as it came into being.

"_Hawke, you fool! Stop!"_

Suddenly he spun back to focus. The man beneath him had a voice, and it belonged to Fenris.

Hawke blinked and swayed. Like someone struggling from quicksand he heaved out of the Fade, and before his spell could blow up anything or turn his insides out, it fizzled and resolved into a harmless cloud of energy.

He was holding Fenris under him against a disheveled bed. The elf's markings were lit with blue-white energy, so bright it hurt to see. The shabby room around them seemed unreal and gray in comparison. The faded daylight, the motley old furniture, the half-eaten meal on the table — all seemed bleached and vague like a Fade vision, all except Fenris, who burned like a tear in the Veil, visible even when Hawke closed his eyes.

"_Malus!_" the elf growled. Even his voice felt like it was thrumming with power. "You nearly killed us both!"

"W-what is this?" Hawke's voice sounded strange and distorted to his ears.

"A draining spell. You've been sleeping for half a day. Now let me go." The elf's wrists jerked in his grasp, as if testing how much force it would take to get free.

Hawke struggled against the black syrup clinging to his thoughts.

_It's the Champion! Kill them!_ The words reached him across the chaos of his mind, a brief flare from the dark. But he could not attach them to a face or a moment. When he glanced down at himself, blinking against the glare, there was crusted blood on his uniform, and for some reason his coat and vest were open and his collar undone. He was still wearing his gloves and boots, filthy with old gore. Yet he couldn't feel any injuries, nor was he in pain, just dazed and overwhelmed.

"What happened?" he rasped.

Fenris frowned. The glow of his markings dimmed slightly, and the humming in Hawke's brain eased a bit as a result.

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Well, I was... indisposed, and you brought me home. There were complications. Mercenaries. Now dead to the last man. A draining spell hit you. You were injured and lost blood, but I think you healed yourself. You used magic on me," the elf concluded with deep disapproval.

Through the black spots of after-vision swimming in his eyes Hawke was now able to see that Fenris was wearing his town clothes, open to the chest for some reason. The elf's hair was tied at the neck as usual, aside from the shaggy fringe he'd kept. It seemed tousled, as if he'd been sleeping.

The mere effort of trying to remember anything made Hawke groan. He felt so strange... feverish and tense, with all his senses tender to the point of pain. All he could recall was Fenris lying on the floor somewhere, unconscious and defenseless.

"Are you hurt?" he asked in his croak of a voice.

"Me? No. I've taken... medicine." Fenris's guilty code word for an elfroot draught, or maybe that Tevinter hangover medicine of his. "You can release me now, Hawke."

The not-so-subtle hint made Hawke realize he was still on all fours on top of the other man, gloved hands closed around his wrists.

Nothing seemed to make sense. Was he still dreaming? Or something worse? For a dream concocted by a demon it would have been an odd one, however. He'd dreamed of having Fenris beneath him, often in fact, but this was not quite what he'd had in mind. Also, Hawke had been in the Fade and while the strangeness of his perceptions did resemble it, they felt just a bit too real to support the notion that a demon was toying with him.

Not completely _impossible_, however. Fenris seemed so unnaturally bright and — Maker, he even smelled wonderful, lyrium and spice and sun. And the low, humming sound the markings made when active... Hawke had never realized before, but there was a pattern to it.

"Let me go, Hawke," Fenris repeated, his voice lower, now. "You're hurt. I don't want to hurt you even more."

"Shh." Hawke lowered his head to whisper. "Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"It's singing."

Fenris blinked. "What? You're babbling, Hawke."

"Am I?" Hawke watched the shimmering lines on the elf's chin and throat. They seemed luminescent on several planes against his olive skin. Hawke wondered if they would feel as otherworldly as they looked.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world to press his hand to the elf's face and brush a gloved thumb from the full curve of his bottom lip to his jaw, over the curved markings. Through his garment he could not really sense much, but the drag of leather on the coarse shapes of the scars awoke in him a vivid memory of how they felt to touch.

Fenris had gone very still, and stared at him strangely.

Then something happened, almost too fast to make sense of. The bed groaned, and suddenly Hawke was on his back, with a glowing elf straddling his waist and his hands next to his head, held easily as if he'd been a misbehaving child. Trying to move felt like pushing against iron bars.

Perhaps it was intended to calm him down. The result was completely opposite. The way his body reacted had little to do with his earlier mostly spiritual longing.

"Snap out of it, Hawke! You're acting strangely. I think you need to see the Abomination and get your head fixed."

Vaguely Hawke knew he should have fought his rising excitement, prevent it from clouding his judgment even more, in the remote case this really was a Fade dream and not just some fucked up brain damage vision of his. But the reasons to do so seemed distant and theoretical, with Fenris so close and so real.

"I feel fine," he murmured. _In certain senses of the word,_ he added in his mind as he ogled the impressive figure of the man on top of him.

"Well, then you can go home." Fenris frowned. "I'm sure your wife is worried. Or your accountant, at least. Don't you have an evil regime to substitute?"

Hawke was about to say something questionably witty about his accountant, but then his eyes slipped lower, and suddenly he knew he had to be dreaming. For once he kept his silence.

"You helped me with those mercenaries, and I am thankful for it," Fenris continued. "But don't think I won't knock you out if you insist on behaving like this."

Hawke's gaze climbed back up. "Go on, then. I'm sure you've always wanted to punch me."

"I haven't —"

"Can I touch you?"

The elf froze. "What?"

Hawke wasn't entirely sure what he said made any sense, but said it anyway. "Everything's gray like old dish rags and you... you're made of light and color and... can I touch you?"

"No!" A tinge of red was appearing on the elf's cheekbones. "I'm not a walking mana battery! That spell addled you even worse than I thought."

"But I think you want me to."

"I — what?"

"Those are very tight breeches, Fenris."

The elf went completely still.

For a moment, despite not being at all certain that the angry vision above him was real, Hawke worried a bit for the safety of his internal organs.

Then the man blushed in earnest, all the way to his slender ears, and muttered something in Arcanum.

When he made to leave, Hawke was prepared. He pushed up and grabbed Fenris in a bear hug. The elf swore in surprise and started to pull away, but his balance was shot. Hawke twisted, and down they went again, making the old bed bemoan its fate.

Immediately Fenris's markings flared again. Combined with getting up too sudden it was enough to black out Hawke's vision for a moment. When he came to, just a couple of seconds later, he was lying on Fenris with his head on the elf's chest, only some linen, wool and leather between him and the lyrium that burned fiercely enough to boil the skin from his flesh. His head buzzed like a bees' nest.

"Okay. Mistake," he groaned.

Fenris cleared his throat. His head was hanging slightly over the bed's edge. The beating of his heart under Hawke's ear sounded strong and steady, if much faster than normal for man in such a prime physical condition.

"I'm getting tired of this little game," he said. His voice was a bit unsteady.

Hawke didn't reply, just dragged his hand down over the elf's clothes and grabbed the telltale hardness between his legs. Fenris nearly jumped out of his skin.

"That — ugh. It's involuntary."

The worn leather of Hawke's glove slid over skin-hugging breeches and the hardening shape beneath. Fenris squirmed a little and made a deep, throaty, incredibly sexy sound, halfway between an aroused growl and an objection.

"I haven't even touched your skin," Hawke pointed out and shifted to lie a bit higher, and nuzzled his face against the stitched buttery leather at the elf's shoulder. There was a wall of a solid, lean muscle beneath, laced with lyrium from neck to arm. So many clothes... Hawke muttered to himself. He wasn't at all sure he was up to the task of removing them. But he really wanted to touch the markings beneath.

"C-conditioning."

A deep rumble of a snort rose from Hawke's broad chest. "What? Horse shit."

"It's not... Hawke, this is... a-ah... a bad idea."

Hawke squeezed. Fenris hissed and his hips stuttered against the touch.

"This disagrees."

"_V-venhedis..."_

Hawke nosed aside the lapels covering Fenris's neck and collarbones. The elf swallowed and the markings on his throat danced. When Hawke leaned closer, Fenris inhaled sharply, and then held his breath, every muscle tense, looking as if he was waiting for a blade to sink into his flesh. Hawke muttered under his breath. He hesitated, not quite sure why. Something was wrong.

Then a drop of sweat, heated by the spellfire under his skin, rolled down his nose and fell on the elf's throat. Fenris shivered all over, and moaned as he started to breathe again. Hawke shook his head, dazed.

What had he been thinking? He could no longer remember.

One joint at a time, he pushed up. He didn't faint, but by the time he was finished, he felt as if he'd been drinking all night at the Hanged Man and had an extra helping of Isabela's special cookies.

_Just get it over with._

Hawke removed his gloves and coat, and grabbed the belt girded on top of the elf's clothes.

He hadn't forgotten the possibility of being in the presence of a demon. Not entirely. But contrary to popular belief, merely having sex with a demon didn't equal a contract with it. As long as Hawke didn't agree to any sort of a demonic pact, he could bugger a Fade spirit as many times as he wanted.

Not that he had the strength to bugger anything, right now. There was barely enough in him left to open the elf's jerkin and doublet and push up his shirt.

"Maker," he rasped, and leaned forward. He couldn't even make out the shapes of the markings. They seemed to twist and slither over each other on the elf's skin. Hawke lifted his hand on one as if to see if it really moved.

An electric shiver traveled up his arm from the contact. Fenris uttered something that sounded like a broken prayer in Arcanum, and squirmed.

Hawke leaned forward, until his forehead was resting against the elf's heaving, smooth chest. He needed this... but it was almost too much. Then again, wasn't it always, touching something divine? At least it didn't sear him alive like he'd feared. To ground himself with something more familiar he closed his teeth over a nipple the size and color of a copper. When Fenris shivered promisingly, he pulled together what resolve he still had, and started to paint a wet downward path with his mouth over the coiling markings.

His mind swam. Maybe he _was_ crazy. Maybe it was just a hallucination. But Maker, it felt so real. Like sunlight. Like the source of all life and magic, flowing into him from what moaned and trembled beneath his touch.

How he managed to open Fenris's breeches was a mystery, but with metal chiming against metal and whisper of leather he pulled them down to reveal more lyrium writhing on the elf's hips and thighs, and the tightly wound loincloth he knew to be a Tevinter custom. The marking under it glowed bright through worn linen, contorted in what seemed like an awkward and painful angle.

Hawke mouthed Fenris through the tightly folded cloth. Fenris cried out and pushed into his touch. The twist of fabric on the elf's hips gave up after some tugging, and the hard-on beneath it straightened to lie on top of the small patch of silky white hair.

There was the lyrium in it, a fat band riding its bottom all the way to its head. In its stark white simplicity that scar was both reminiscent of something more painful Hawke could even imagine, and the most arousing thing he'd ever seen. He pressed his tongue to its base.

Fenris bucked like a horse. Only with effort did Hawke push him down, and with gentleness that felt near ludicrous against his inner turmoil, angled him up with his hand and mouthed the length of his nether marking, licking away the precum that wept freely toward his lips. Fenris groaned and writhed. When Hawke took the elf in his burning mouth, he coiled up, jaw slack, face half hidden in his tangled white fringe.

It was too much. He would faint. Or maybe die. With a shaking hand he shoved down his clothes and wrapped his fingers around his own by now desperate hard-on. From the first touch he knew it wouldn't take long.

He pulled up, then pushed back down. And again — and there it was, that white arrow of blinding pleasure down his spine. He shivered in bliss, eyes blurring, and stopped, for a moment thinking he'd be happy to perish now, after all.

Suddenly strong fingers twisted painfully in his hair. Hawke moaned in surprise around the fullness in his mouth. Fenris held his head in place, and started to thrust up into his mouth.

There was no way Hawke could keep it from happening. It was like being mauled by a young bull. He struggled to ride the erratic but determined assault, and not to choke, drooling like a retarded mabari since he could not swallow. And all the while his own ridiculous hard-on throbbed with every eye-watering thrust and painful knee to the ribs and, eventually, ankle digging into his arse. He couldn't even stroke himself unless he wanted to shoot in seconds.

After just a minute of abusing Hawke's mouth Fenris choked and went rigid. The lyrium throbbed wildly, and Hawke felt the hand in his hair give way a little. He pulled back and coughed for breath.

Fenris trembled all over, eyes still curtained by his hair, damp with sweat that trickled down the bridge of his nose and the side of his jaw. A broken cry escaped his mouth. He came with long pearly ropes of lyrium-scented spunk on himself and over, all the way to the floor beyond.

When the lyrium's glow was quieting down to a less agitated shimmer, Hawke had barely enough strength left to climb over Fenris and wrap the elf's hand around his erection. Mouth against a pointed ear, whispering into it something that he couldn't later remember, he thrust against the man's long fingers and the markings in them, and soon felt his own climax hit him like a wall of white-blue magic.

o o o

What might have a few hours or a hundred years of exhausted dozing later, he woke up to a strong elbow burying itself in his side. He doubled over with pain, and something kicked itself out of the bed, to land on the floor with a sort of scrambling thud.

Perfect lucidity felt less like the blessing it should have been. Hawke remembered where he was and why. And also, what he had done.

He closed his eyes, and through the pain, gingerly probed in his mind for the injury. And sure enough, there it was. His affinity to the Fade felt raw, as if the Veil around him had been abraded. It was the result of the draining spell and drawing on his reserves too deep. He'd literally chafed his connection to the Fade while struggling to mend the severed arteries in his leg.

Hawke was no healer, but he knew that such an injury explained his temporary memory loss and confusion. It could leave a mage dazed to the point of deliriousness and take weeks to heal. Hawke was strong and used to channeling a bit too deep, so he'd probably be all right in mere days, but before that, casting would feel unpleasant. Otherwise there would be little pain, at least on the physical level.

Right now, though, he would have welcomed a bit of writhing in agony.

He pushed to sit on the bed, not in danger of fainting any more — all that remained of his dizziness was a mild headache.

Fenris sat where he'd landed a few feet away, looking bewildered. The elf's markings burned a low white in the muted afternoon light that surrounded him on the weathered wood floor.

For a while they stared at each other in a matching state of disarray. The elf's clothes were hanging open and his breeches around his knees. The shirt hanging to his thighs saved his decency. Hawke was still in his dirty boots and vest, and breeches crusted with blood and slashed across the back of his thighs. By the taste in his mouth, he might have been giving head to a particularly dirty lyrium vein. Also, he really needed to piss.

He struggled to get something out of his mouth. Preferably not the usual half-cocked crap that tended to be his forte.

"Er," he managed, finally.

The elf blinked. The a frown appeared between his brows.

_Uh, oh._

So, this was it. Hawke was going to die. What a way to go. The Champion of Kirkwall, ripped to bloody rags with his cock hanging from his pants. A deserved fate, most likely, but Hawke had been aiming for something a bit more fitting. Such as being assassinated by a house of particularly beautiful and talented Antivan Crows of the female persuasion (with maybe a few male elves to provide variety, and preferably after his ninetieth birthday).

Moments passed, however, and once again righteous death failed to come.

Fenris pushed to his feet with surprising grace, and — with the last of his shimmer dying away instead of turning into a nasty glow — tucked his shirt in his breeches and buttoned up. With what seemed like calm he shrugged his doublet and jerkin in place and pulled them straight, and tugged his sleeves over his wrists.

"You feel better, I take it?" the elf asked, his voice gruff, but not hostile. Perhaps it could even be said that he sounded civil. But he refused to look at Hawke any more.

Hawke cleared his throat, confused. "Yes."

"Well, then. I'm going to clean up. See yourself out." Fenris headed for the door, bare feet making no sound on the floor boards.

"Wait!" Hawke heard himself croak.

Fenris stopped midway through the room. Without looking fully back, his head tilted reluctantly over his shoulder. The angle allowed a view at his patrician profile, at the regal nose and jaw and surprisingly soft curve of lip. Hawke swallowed.

He ran his hand through his hair. It felt like a particularly unkempt crow's nest. Inside, his brain didn't feel much better, as he kicked around in it for something to say, now that he'd made it necessary.

_So, remember anything particularly traumatic this time?_

_Want to have a drink? You know, to bond over?_

_How are you, Fenris?_

What the fuck was wrong with him? Fenris wasn't going to just 'clean up'. Or perhaps he was, but not _just_. For a man with so few social graces he did very little by chance, at least when in the company of others. He was offering Hawke a clean way out, a way to save face. They'd never have to talk about this again. Which was probably what the elf wanted.

And Hawke just couldn't leave well enough alone.

For a moment he considered throwing himself at the elf's feet and spouting abject nonsense. But it wouldn't have helped. If there was something Fenris hated nearly as much as being deprived of his free will, it was people acting like fools. Unfortunately there seemed to be very little between those two that Hawke could actually think of doing right now.

The elf was starting to look annoyed. Then again, Hawke knew that in Fenris's case an annoyed expression might have meant anything from slight puzzlement to considering murder.

"Thanks for saving my life," he said at last.

Fenris turned a bit more and stole an unreadable look at him from the corner of an eye. Had this man really once been a slave? Hard to believe, the way he now stiffly bent his beautiful neck. Hawke's stupid heart ached.

"Thank you for saving mine, Hawke," Fenris said, his voice deep and level, and left.

Well, at least he was still Hawke, and not _mage_. That had to be a good sign?

It didn't feel like a victory for long, though, being left alone in the cooling room with its lengthening shadows and yesterday's forgotten meal on the table. For a moment Hawke considered the pros and cons of jumping out of the window, then decided that a two-storey fall wouldn't kill him, and resolved to find his gloves and coat, and save what little he could of the appearance of his torn and bloodied uniform.

Walking through the silent house felt like passing through someone else's dream. Had it all really happened? Not even the bodies were there any more, just dried blood stains and melted and cracked floor tiles where his fire had hit them. Fenris must have done some cleaning during the night. It was easy in Kirkwall, carved through with secret tunnels, to get rid of anything smaller than a bronto, which perhaps contributed to the high crime rate.

Outside, Hawke relieved himself in a side alley and headed home through the least busy route he could find.

o o o

The water was cold like winter, but Fenris didn't leave the bath in the basement until his skin had acquired a bluish tinge and he was certain that Hawke was gone.

Leaving his clothes where he'd folded them on a chair, he toweled himself and wrapped the length of cloth around his loins, and climbed the stone stairs back to the silent and now darkening house. It was late Parvulis and the air was already much colder than it would ever get in Tevinter, even in the highlands during Verimensis, when winds blew from the South and there was snow on top of the High Reaches. Fenris wondered if he would ever get used to the infernal climate. He'd been trying for years, and he still hated the cold ground beneath his feet and the biting wind from the Waking Sea. Due to his markings the cold could not really harm him, and even when it was bad enough to hurt, he remained functional. It was a sign of weakness that he couldn't bring himself not to care about it.

He returned upstairs, forcing himself to walk with a measured pace, despite shivering each wet and chilly step of the way.

To his sensitive nose his room still stank of Hawke and what had happened. Muttering, he headed to the window and shouldered it ajar, allowing more cold air to invade his living quarters. Then he went to tend to the fireplace, his fingers pale around the poker as he searched in the ashes for embers.

With flames starting to lick new fire wood and three blankets wrapped around himself, Fenris pulled to sit into a sagging armchair nearby, with the shadows deepening beyond the small sphere of light. It was not unlike dozens of other evenings before in his house, silent and alone, wrought with the amazement that he still felt at having nothing to do and no one to censure him for his idleness.

No, not _his_ house.

Hawke's house.

Still shivering occasionally, he glanced at the bed, and turned back to stare into the flames, the last drops of water dripping slowly from the damp hair over his eyes.

It was useless to try and not to think about it.

After carrying Hawke to his bed and taking care of the bodies, he'd treated his headache with some_ billitis_ and elfroot and waited in this same chair for hours, knowing Hawke would not wake up any time soon. He'd tried to eat, then dozed off, and come back awake near dawn with the indomitable slayer of Qunari warlords still snoring softly on the bed where he'd been tossed, long limbs sprawled from one end of it to another, oblivious to the cold. The man was too big for everything. Fenris's measly old bunk included. Even when sleeping, his presence had filled the room. And Fenris had waited through the cloudy sunrise with increasing restlessness, but little anger, aside from the mild insult of being so casually knocked out, which he grudgingly admitted he'd earned.

He could have said he didn't understand what had come over him, the day before in front of Hawke's house. But he would have lied.

Dawn had turned into morning, morning into day. And as the sun had climbed higher, so had his uneasiness, until finally he'd left his chair and walked to the bed.

He was not completely uneducated on the aftereffects of entropy magic. He'd been a bodyguard and an assassin to a magister in a land that thrived on the power struggle between mages. He knew what a draining spell did to one, if it couldn't be dispelled in time. Left on his own, Hawke might have slept for two days. But Fenris couldn't wait for two days, not without losing his mind. Or so he told himself. And so he'd proceeded to wake Hawke up, even though he'd known it would be difficult and likely leave the man delirious.

And it had. Except in Hawke's case it hadn't meant hours of debate on spell theory with an imaginary rat, like had once happened to one of Danarius' apprentices.

What had happened... years ago Fenris would have blamed it on Hawke, on the man's hunger for his markings and failure to control it. And he might have done so even now, had it not been for Isabela's voice in the back of his head.

_Listen, pet, _she said, shaking her head._ You're at least twice as strong as Hawke. You could have thrown him across the room any moment before he got started. But you didn't. I know there was a time when you didn't know better, but those days are gone. Don't lie to yourself, love. You let it happen because you wanted it._

Even when imaginary, Isabela had an annoying tendency to be right. There was no denying he'd wanted it. He'd wanted it bad. Even at the expense of more excruciating memories. They'd come every time, and today was no exception. They'd hit him like a seething torrent of terrifying, shapeless fragments, a life that had soon faded and weaved itself into his dreams, now forgotten except for some vague whispers and almost-there faces he could not name.

And still he'd wanted it, to the extent that it was now hard to say which of them had used the other.

How long had he wanted Hawke? From the beginning? After all, the man was everything he'd been built to respond to. The closer he'd come to understanding that, the more vehemently he'd denied it, and the more abominably he'd behaved.

Now he wondered what he'd been so afraid of. Had he really thought that simply letting Hawke touch him would turn him into a mind slave? Foolish. It hadn't done so three years ago, and it wouldn't do so now. As long as he didn't allow himself to be enthralled, it was just sex. Incredibly dangerous (mind-bending, incredible) sex, naturally, given how easy it would be to get addicted, but still... just sex. And even if it wasn't the wisest of things to want it, what did it matter? In less than a month he'd be gone. From the sea, Danarius would never find him.

And neither would Hawke.


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Fell in a bit of a funk over the holidays. And then I was badgered by plot bunnies left and right. But last week I received a couple of lovely comments and got back to writing this and it was a lot of fun. I know I shouldn't promise faster updates but I *hope* that not every chapter will take a whole month to write, especially since I'm getting quite close to killing Danarius :-)_

_In other news: it's finally winter in Finland, with snow and everything. Major improvement :-)_

* * *

><p>For a mage, Hawke had never dreamed much. But whether it was his abraded connection to the Fade or just the memory of what had happened, for several days afterwards, his sleep was heavy with visions. A large part of them involved Fenris in one way or another. And Hawke found that cold baths weren't half as useful for someone practically unable to feel anything but the most extreme of temperatures.<p>

It wouldn't have been nearly as bad, had he been able to stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time.

After several nights and days of restless dreaming, it was starting to feel like his sanity was permanently damaged. He had to ask Bodahn to cancel all of his appointments, since he was unable to keep from dozing on his feet or in front of his meals. For once, Marcia seemed resigned to patch him up and ask no questions. Maybe it was her Antivan upbringing finally catching up on her; it was not a country known for its even-handed matrimonial arrangements. But Hawke felt certain there was more to her reticence than that. He was not convinced it was a good thing how much she occasionally reminded him of his mother, who had also played the part of the self-sacrificing nurse whenever he returned home from an unannounced absence with strange injuries and vague explanations. Just like Leandra, Marcia was probably trying to convey a message through her pointed kindliness, but Hawke was too tired to figure it out.

On the third day he found that, despite his exhaustion, he was able to stay awake if he so wished. He tried to handle some of his frightening backlog of letters, but the words kept dancing in his eyes until his head ached. After an hour he was sick of both trying to concentrate and looking at the walls trying to recover from concentrating. Since Marcia was out for the moment, and thus not around to make a fuss about it, he decided to go for a walk. If he could make it as far as the chantry without passing out, he might as well visit the Grand Cleric, to keep his promise to the Divine's agent.

Kingsway had just turned to Harvestmere and the day was bright and clear, with very little smoke drifting up from the foundries. The short walk through the Estates improved Hawke's spirits enough to almost feel like he could face Elthina without stumbling into one of their usual debates — a notion he was soon abused of.

He reached the chantry without being accosted by anyone on the way, which in itself was a surprise. The Grand Cleric quickly made time for him in her schedule. As always, it was to reproach him for his disinterest in matters of faith.

"It is good to see you under this roof, Champion, but I wish it would happen more often," she started before he had even got up from his knees. "Come sing the Chant with us. Your example will have a calming effect upon your fellow mages."

Immediately Hawke could feel the start of his good mood cracking. "So it is my influence that you seek, Your Grace, and not my salvation?"

She grumbled inaudibly. "I know you do not share my concern over your soul. It saddens me to think that a man of your stature should rather condemn yourself to oblivion than join the side of the Maker. But perhaps the Chant will change your mind. It is a magnificent thing to hear... in these troubled times, it gives me great relief." She turned her head and fell into meaningful silence as if to appreciate the soft singing of the affirmed beneath the chancel where they stood.

Hawke stood up and once again considered the aging Grand Cleric before him. Viscount Dumar's death had made her the most powerful figure in Kirkwall — but that was just the theory. There had been a time when Hawke had thought Elthina supported the templars, but by now he knew she was little more than a doorstop between Meredith and Orsino. Perhaps she was growing old? It was hard to believe that, only sixteen years ago, this almost naive-appearing woman had fought alongside Meredith against the tyrant Threnhold. Was the head-patting and tut-tutting really her idea how to keep people from going for each other's throats? Now more than ever, Hawke knew that Elthina was not the answer to the question how to save this Maker-forsaken city. At best she would just keep shaking her head and let Hawke do his job. At worst she would write a string of angry missives to the Divine and create another problem for him to solve.

"Then I should not strive to destroy such beauty. Anyone who's ever heard me sing can testify that there's nothing sacred to those infernal sounds."

Her posture stiffened. "I see you have not changed, Champion. Your lack of reverence for things greater than any of us... I want to believe you do more good outside the Gallows than in, but sometimes I wonder whether it is wise of Meredith not to contain you."

"Perhaps she knows I will not let myself be contained."

"So after all you've been through, you still do not support the Circle?"

"That, I never said." Hawke raised his hand to fend off her objections. "Neither did I come here to discuss my allegiances. I came to tell that someone close to the Divine wishes you to seek refuge in the grand cathedral of Val Royeaux."

She seemed surprised enough to forget their argument. "What? You have no connections to the Divine. Why would she send this information through you?"

Hawke shrugged. "I do not know. I do not even know if the person I met speaks for the Divine, or just herself. But for what it's worth, I agree. We all know a war is coming. Even if the Divine sends forces to intervene, they may arrive too late to protect you. You would be much safer in Val Royeaux." _And out of my way, for the moment._

"That may as well be." She did not seem convinced. "But I did not take a vow to this city and its people just to leave at the first sign of danger. There is no greater devotion than to lay one's life at the Maker's feet. I will not leave my flock." Her brow furrowed. "Are you _yawning_, young man?"

Hawke removed his hand from front of his mouth. "No, Your Grace."

"Hmph." She stood a bit straighter; the top of her greyed head came almost level with his shoulder. "I will not turn my back on duty. And neither should you. I shall pray that when the time comes, you choose wisely, Champion."

The advice would have been slightly more compelling coming from someone not so well known for her complete inability to take a stand. Years ago Hawke would have said as much. But now he swallowed the biting retort before it reached his tongue. He needed the Grand Cleric's support, such as it was, and that of the people who looked to her for guidance. Most of the nobles did not care whether Hawke truly believed or not, but his religious indifference grated on many of them, and with Elthina behind him, they would be much more likely to forget the shortcomings of his faith.

Even so, he feared that the placating smile on his face looked more like a grimace. "As will I, Your Grace. And if it pleases you, I shall visit the Chantry more often."

Her brows climbed a notch. "Good. See to it that you keep that promise, young man."

Hawke bowed, and that was the end of their discussion.

After Elthina had left, he lighted a candle for his mother and made a show of standing beneath the statue of Andraste long enough for several visitors to see. He was not much of a believer, but his mother had been, and the gesture would have pleased her, even as she'd have seen through it in a heartbeat. The impression of piety was, however, slightly spoiled by the face-cracking yawns Hawke kept trying to suppress. Before long he was forced to turn toward the flight of stairs that would take him to the nave — only to see Aveline climb them with a candle in her hand.

"Hawke! You're the last face I expected to see here. And the most welcome."

The Guard Captain made a very fine sight in her armor, a sword on her hip, a cloak the color of new copper on her back. She held his hand in a firm grip and gave him a warm smile. It was an old rumor in Kirkwall that they were lovers, but Aveline had never been one to bend an ear to pamphlet-makers.

Then she frowned as she took a closer look at him.

"Something wrong? You look knackered."

"Wrong? No more than usual. You, on the other hand, look smashing."

"Hmh. I doubt that." She gave him a tight-lipped smile and released his hand to place hers behind her back. "The way things are going... well, shouldn't complain. Been easier since Jeven got his due, anyhow. Thanks again for that, Hawke."

He nodded in acknowledgement of how they'd lately taken care of her corrupt predecessor. She sighed.

"We should meet more often. I miss our talks. Shit, on a bad day I even miss the sewers and the Wounded Coast, and wading neck deep in abominations. Did you know some Orlesian came around to complain? Something to do with Fenris's manor. Was pretty ruffled about it."

"I don't think he'll bother you again."

"I see. Better not ask, eh? Barely knew the elf's back and now's this. How is he, by the way? Donnic said he was a real sunshine at the Hanged Man the other night."

Hawke's smile felt like a rictus grimace on his face. "Oh, the same, the same."

Aveline's brows knitted. Hawke had an ominous feeling she was reading him like an open book. "That so? Hm. Well, anyhow. There's a job for you, Hawke, if you'd have it."

He was sorely behind in his own agenda, but knew she didn't ask unless he was really needed. "Of course."

They agreed to meet at the barracks the next day around noon. Truth be told, Hawke was relieved Aveline didn't want to discuss the job immediately. It was barely afternoon, but after leaving the chantry and walking home, his fatigue had not only returned, it had reached a nearly painful level. He climbed to his room and barely managed to take off his boots before collapsing in his bed and falling asleep again. This time he dreamed about Tevinter and magisters, and dusty slave markets under a scorching sun, and ill-tempered white-haired slaves that needed to be taught a lesson.

Several hours later he was startled awake to see Marcia leaning over him, a harried look on her face. The bright sunshine outside had been replaced by the blue glow of dusk. Someone had lit the fireplace; Hawke had no idea who and when. He felt feverish, his clothes sticky and crumpled. Even so, he couldn't help noticing the caramel softness of Marcia's cleavage, pushed on display by a tightly laced green visiting dress. Her brown hair was done up in elaborate, coiled braids.

"Ah, finally awake, yes?" She picked a fine white handkerchief from her stays and dabbed at his sweaty face. The cloth was fragrant with her warm skin and flowery Antivan perfume. "Why did you go out? Such foolishness!.. Orana was beside herself with worry. Should we get a healer, husband? I happen to know a — _oy!_"

She yelped as he pulled her to the bed and started pushing up her numerous skirts. From somewhere Hawke heard Orana's startled squeak, then a hurried tapping of bare feet. The door closed only moments before he got his trousers open.

Well, at least there didn't seem to be anything wrong with his physical prowess.

"Your illness does not seem fatal," Marcia mumbled much later against his hairy chest in mock reproach, her braids half undone down her naked back.

Hawke was staring at the ceiling, almost too dizzy to speak.

He'd thought that after several days of restless arousal, making love to her would clear his mind, but he just felt more confused. On a purely physical level he was starting to feel better, but his thoughts felt even more hopelessly tangled than before. And it would have been lying to say it was just because of the entropy magic. He seemed to be caught in a strange dream, one that didn't want to let him go.

"What's wrong?" she asked after a moment of hesitation.

Suddenly Hawke couldn't breathe. He extracted himself from her and left the bed in search of his clothes.

"I'm hungry," he said, and left, not looking back to see her face. Outside in the dim corridor he leaned for a moment against the wall and wondered if he'd ever be sane again.

o o o

The next day, after yet another restless night and barely making it to his weekly meeting with Meredith, Hawke walked to the Viscount's Keep to see that Isabela and Varric had received his message and were already waiting outside the barracks.

Ten minutes later in Aveline's office, the Captain of the Guard crossed her arms over her plated chest, and leaned back against her desk.

"Right, then," she said. "At least eleven prostitutes have disappeared near the Docks over the past two months. I have reason to suspect they were taken by the same person. Three of the cases occurred over the past week, so whoever it is, he's growing more ambitious. I want you to find this person and stop him. The Viscount's office will reward you as usual." She sighed. "I know you don't need the coin, Hawke, but do a favor for an old friend, eh? The whores have all but deserted the harbor and I have a third of my men tied up patrolling Lowtown, to keep order with all the tars that now come there for their drunk and disorderly."

Hawke returned Aveline's look from where he was leaning against a wall smoking _melleta_, one booted leg propped over the other. "I guess there's more to the story, or you wouldn't need us."

Her expression grew pensive, and she drummed her fingers against her impressively tidy desk. How did she manage to keep it so neat, anyhow? Hawke's was always buried under letters and papers and sundry objects that people for a reason or another kept sending him — everything from women's underwear to family heirlooms and even a pincushion that looked ominously like Meredith. "At least two witnesses claim to have seen one of the women. She could not remember her friends or family and called herself by an assumed name, and escaped when they tried to take her home. But they swear it was her."

Hawke scratched his beard. "Mind magic?"

"Sounds like."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "So, another maleficar to hunt down, probably crazy, possibly incredibly strong if he can keep people on a leash over distance and for extended periods of time. Lovely." Hawke tried to suppress his irritation, hard as it was after getting verbally flayed by the Knight-Commander earlier.

"Heard anything about this, Varric?" he asked.

The dwarf made a noncommittal gesture. "Well, I knew there was something going on. There have been horny sailors and fist fights even at the Hanged Man. But it's Kirkwall we're talking about. People disappear all the time."

"A powerful maleficar, and no idea where to start looking." _And I still feel like a jar of qaatlok when I try to cast. _"How are we supposed to find him?"

"Well, I could always act as bait," said Isabela.

Hawke turned. The Rivaini appeared busy examining a splendid parade armor that had been mounted on a dummy in the farthest corner of Aveline's office. Typical of Isabela to be attracted to the shiniest object in the room, Hawke thought, and then immediately regretted his acerbic notion. She hadn't really done anything to earn his ire.

In passing he noticed that while the mounted armor was not dusty, it did not show signs of wear, either. Hawke had only seen Aveline use it once, for Viscount Dumar's funeral. The Orlesian antique shield he'd given her — now hung on the wall behind her desk — hadn't seen much use, either. But in Aveline's defense, neither had she. The Guard-Captain was kept far too busy by her combined logistical, judicial, diplomatic and marital duties to even sleep much, let alone carouse around Kirkwall and surrounding countryside in hunt of criminals.

He acted slow to catch up. "A bait?"

"A whore, you silly."

Hawke snapped his fingers. "Right, right. How did I not make the connection."

"Oh, shut up, you monkey. I would need a disguise, though."

Aveline snorted. "To look like a slattern? No you don't."

"Aww. Unlike some other women, _I_ happen to look good in a dress. Now that I think of it, I have just the thing. But we need to drop by the Blooming Rose later."

"Do I even want to hear this?"

"For such a big girl you're an awful ninny, you know. There was a masquerade. I went as the Queen of Antiva. The dress... stayed behind. That's all there is to it, really."

"Somehow I doubt that. I recall that party of yours. After a week, we still kept receiving reports."

Varric groaned. "So that's our best plan? We just wait for the crazy to show up? It could take days. Sounds like a completely hare-brained idea to me."

"Exactly like most of your plans ever," Aveline muttered.

"Good point. It will probably work like a charm."

No one could think of anything better, so Isabela's idea was agreed upon. It would be impossible to pull off before dark, however, and sunset was hours away. Hawke suggested talking to Aveline's eyewitnesses in the meanwhile. Isabela suggested going to get Fenris.

"No!" The word escaped Hawke's mouth before he could bite off his tongue to stop it. Immediately the others swivelled their heads to stare at him with undisguised interest.

"Er... I mean... is that really necessary? He's probably busy. You know. Redecorating." Hawke's voice kept growing weaker, as he became aware that every word just sank him deeper into the quagmire. By the time he managed to stop, Varric was nearly crimson with curiosity.

Isabela laughed. "Fenris? Too busy to hunt a maleficar? Are we talking about the same man? White hair, spiky armor, doesn't like magic? It's not like Aveline can come and be our meat shield."

"Yes, I vote for getting Broody, too," said Varric. "He's surprisingly useful between me and a raging abomination."

"Yes, yes, of course. Forget what I said." _Not that any of you will. Ungrateful... gossiping... harpies._

The thought of coming face to face with Fenris made Hawke's stomach churn. But Isabela was right — there was no reason not to ask him to come along. After all, Fenris not only enjoyed hunting maleficars, he was also really good at it. The way the others were looking at Hawke right now... he didn't even want to imagine the chinwagging around Varric's gaming table the next time he was not around.

"Are you all right, Hawke?" Aveline asked. "You look ill."

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Hawke nearly winced at his completely overdone attempt at cheeriness. Before Aveline could voice her incredulity, however, he was already herding the others toward the door. "One crazy mage, coming right up. See you, Aveline."

The odd looks Hawke received from Varric and Isabela while they left the Keep only convinced him further that there was something seriously wrong with him.

On the way to Fenris's manor he considered the small mercy of at least not being encumbered by his templar uniform. He'd put on a tailored black coat and matching breeches and boots, instead, hoping at least not to appear like a rampant apostate in front of the Knight-Commander. But by the look on Meredith's face that morning, he could as well have worn one of his wife's dresses. The Knight-Commander was growing more and more suspicious over Hawke's failure to find the man behind the Manifesto. It was starting to get dangerous to give her a 'working on it' for an answer. Annoying her in any way, however small, was probably not a good idea at all.

But there was simply no way Hawke could have worn the uniform. It was thoroughly ruined. Knowing his reputation, the Order had provided him with a spare, but it had been made three years ago, before Marcia and her effect on the cooking in the Hawke estate — and consequently, her husband's physique. Hawke had always been heavy boned, but today, when trying on the spare uniform, he'd hadn't even been able to button the coat. He was growing a _gut_. At this point his brawny build still balanced his weight, but if he didn't stop appreciating his food quite so much, the others would soon need to roll him around like a giant ball of magical blubber. Varric would have to invent a nickname for him. And knowing the dwarf, it wouldn't be 'Hawke the Great'.

Not that it wasn't happening to all of them. Well, maybe not everyone was growing fat — certainly not Anders, or Merrill, from what little he'd seen of her lately. But they were all growing older. Even Aveline seemed a bit broader, now. She could still outrun and out-fence any twenty-five-year-old in her roster, but in another six years? Not likely.

And then there was the exception of Fenris, of course.

When the man came to answer the door, he was wearing a fitted grey wool coat over his perfectly toned upper body, and a pair of loose trousers that made his long legs look even longer. His hair was clean and combed and fell softly over his brows, neck and shoulders. How in the Fade did Fenris manage to look better over the years, instead of more weathered like everyone else? Hawke had always assumed city elves aged about the same as humans. Now Merrill, Merrill he would have expected to stay young forever, she'd probably live for another two hundred years at least — Hawke suspected the reason she'd seemed older lately had more to do with the tragedy at Sundermount than her age. But Fenris had absolutely no excuse for looking more youthful now than when they'd first met.

"Yes?" the Tevinter asked, hospitable as always, although he didn't seem hostile, either.

Isabela struck a pose. "Care to come out and play, handsome?"

Fenris crossed his arms and took in the sight of them standing beneath the shallow stairs to his door. His gaze lingered for a second on Hawke, who tried not to look like he was thinking of what had happened three days ago. It helped only marginally that by now it felt almost like one of the weird dreams he'd been having.

Fortunately Isabela had decided to take care of talking. Hawke wasn't entirely certain he could have said anything that sounded human.

"Come to do what?" Fenris asked.

"To hunt a blood mage, of course."

The elf's expression brightened noticeably. "Oh. Well, in that case. Come in."

They followed Fenris into the house. It seemed unchanged from when Hawke had last been there, with the burned and melted floor tiles in the hall and the trashed furniture piled around, waiting for a clean-up crew that would never arrive.

On reaching the stairs to the second floor, Fenris turned. "I need to change," he said. "But before I do — are you truly fit to do this, Hawke?"

At once, Isabela and Varric nearly sizzled with curiosity. Hawke stifled a groan. "I'm fine."

"Are you, now? Prove it."

Was Fenris actually asking him to do magic? That was a first. Hawke gave him a lopsided grin. "What, you don't trust my judgment? I'm not sure that's a good quality in an underling, truth be told."

The green eyes measured him levelly. "Trying to joke your way out of it again, Hawke? I am not going to let you get yourself killed because you're an idiot."

Somewhere there, buried beneath the casual insult, was an actual midge of concern whether Hawke lived or died. Too surprised for words, Hawke lifted his hand and conjured a fist-sized ball of flame to hover above his palm. He allowed it to swirl there for a moment before pulling the spellfire back into himself. How he managed not to let on how painful it was, he'd never know.

_Shit, he's right. How am I going to do anything more than that? This could end badly._ For a second he actually considered backing down. Then he stiffened his neck. He wasn't going to let Fenris have the satisfaction. Casting was just painful, not impossible.

"Good enough?"

"Hm." For a moment it looked like Fenris would argue. Then he relented. "Wait here. And Hawke, if you decide to spontaneously combust, please try not to do it near the trash? If someone's going to burn the place down, I'd rather do it myself."

"_What_ was _that_ all about?" Isabela sputtered immediately when Fenris had disappeared into his room and was unlikely to hear her loud whisper.

"Err... Just a tiny scuffle three days ago. Nothing important."

Isabela looked like she'd been taking lessons from Fenris on suspicious glowering during their travels together. "Not from what he said. Now that I think of it, you do seem slightly pinched."

"That's because I had Meredith's bad temper for breakfast."

Even her unconvinced 'hm' sounded like Fenris's.

After only a few minutes the Tevinter climbed back downstairs in his familiar armor and sword, his hair tied at the back of his neck. Despite the late time of year, which had prompted even Isabela to put on a jacket, he wore no cloak over his armor. After all these years, he still largely clung to the restrictions placed on him by Danarius. Why?

Fenris quirked a brow at his scrutiny. Hawke wished for any sign of what the elf was thinking. Anything at all. But as usual, Fenris kept his emotions to himself. When prodded, he would probably have given an honest answer — but truth be told, Hawke had no idea what to ask. And even if he had, it was not really the place or the time.

"Lead on," the elf said. And Hawke did, in search of the eyewitnesses Aveline had mentioned.


	30. Chapter 30

**NOTE 4/6**: Sorry for the long hiatus. I'm breaking up with my SO of more than ten years :-( It's very hard to do anything creative while the process is still ongoing.

Thank you for reading, and hugs to all reviewers, and to my beta Elenilote! You're a treasure, my dear. All remaining errors are my own.

* * *

><p><em>When he left the hut the next morning, he half suspected to be confronted by a few incensed villagers, or at least one angry father. But no such thing happened. In fact, no one seemed to even know about his scene with Kari. The half-elf girl had left early to hunt with her father, or so Shiha told him, and Fenris had no reason to doubt her. The healer seemed aware something was wrong, but was obviously too discreet to ask.<em>

_Life at Riverbend village continued much like before. The relaxed rhythm of its existence felt alien to someone used to the structure and demands of a more developed society. The forest provided ample food all year round, and when the villagers weren't caught up in warfare, they spent much of their time storytelling and game-playing and crafting, and — as Fenris gradually started to understand, now that his eyes were open to this aspect of their lives — endless complicated amorous endeavors._

_As days went by, Fenris started to suspect that the Fog Warriors would have been happy to have him as their guest forever. But he hated the idea of existing on anyone's goodwill. Even more importantly, he was getting bored out of his mind. Finding something to do proved difficult, however. He was no hunter, and when he offered to help the women with their domestic chores, they just giggled and rolled their eyes. Finally Shiha directed him to the village blacksmith whose son had recently been sent to another community. The man worked at a simple brick furnace, beneath a canopy weaved of leaves. The idea was for Fenris to help him until he found a new apprentice. What good would come of it, Fenris did not know, since he would soon leave, but at least it kept him from feeling useless._

_To his surprise, he liked the work. The aging, taciturn blacksmith was easy to be around with, and primitive as the tools of his trade were, the man's skills compensated for their limitations. Fenris, on the other hand, knew much about putting an edge to a blade and keeping it there. Due to his strength and intellect he was quick to learn the basics of smith-craft. Very soon the two of them fell into a relationship of companionable silence with only occasional grunts to signal a thing or other while they worked._

_At nights Fenris joined the others at the communal fires. There he played games or just listened to the storytellers and music-makers. Some of the women (and a couple of men) threw him interested looks, but he pretended not to notice, and to his relief, they did not insist for more._

_All in all, it would have been a pleasant time without the knowledge that sooner or later he would have to confront Kari. Surely it could not be a good sign that the girl stayed away so long? It felt odd to worry, and odder still to not be able to tell whether he worried for Kari's safety, or his own._

_As it happened, it took five days before she returned, and sharpening of most old blades in the village._

_One day, with the afternoon rain making a steady hiss against the leaves, Fenris was working alone at the blacksmith's shop. White mist rolled over the village from the forest and the mountains beyond, making everything in the shelter drip with moisture. Fenris was clothed in nothing but his hose and a loin cloth, humbled by the hot, humid climate to finally reveal his ugly scars to curious stares._

_With the sound of rain and distant thunder, he only noticed Kari's presence when she slipped beneath the canopy. The girl crossed the small working space and dried her face in rough old cloth strung on a bit of string nearby, robbing him of any chance of just pretending she wasn't there._

"_Hey," she said, then, her tone wary but not hostile._

_Fenris wiped water from his brows and laid the knife and polishing stone he'd been working with on a wooden block, before he turned to face her._

_As always, Kari was nearly naked, with only leather briefs and soft boots and some beaded jewelry to cover her light-brown skin, wet from the rain. Her dark hair was in its usual long braid, and the fresh scrapes and bruises on her told of braving the dangers of the pathless forest. The little ill-tempered monkey occupied its customary place on her shoulder, shivering to get rid of the water on its puffed-out fur._

_Fenris managed a nod. She wouldn't look at him, and instead pretended to interest herself in the tools around._

"_I went hunting with Father," she said. "Did you know he came from the cities?"_

"_No," he said, surprised. This was definitely not the way he had imagined their conversation to begin._

_He knew little of Kari's father, Raj, beyond the fact that he had not been born among the Fog Warriors. The short, stout human spent most of his time hunting and scouting in the forest. Fenris was no more prejudiced against one race than the other, having little enough reason to like any, and neither had he any personal reason to dislike Kari's father. The few dark, contemplative looks he'd received from the man told that the indifference was perhaps not shared._

"_Well, he did, though he's never spoken of it much," Kari continued. "Until now. I suppose I have you to thank for him finally opening his mouth. I told him what happened between us. And he told me some of what his life in the city was like, and of the devil-mages — magisters, he called them." For the first time, she turned to look at him directly. The look on her face had a sharpness to it he'd never seen on her before. "He said that you are to your magister like my monkey is to me."_

_Why did her words hurt? It was true, after all. Danarius had often called him 'his pet'. Fenris stood silent, his face carefully composed, and lowered his eyes._

"_But even my monkey has a will of its own. Father said you have none. That you are bound to your magister and will go back to him if you can."_

_For a moment she waited in silence for him to gainsay her. But he did not, and she went on._

"_He said that the magister uses mind magic to control you, that you are a danger to us all. Are you?"_

_Due to the weather, Fenris was already drenched in sweat, yet he felt himself sweating even more. He'd always been a miserable liar. Fortunate for him, then, that in this at least Kari's father had been wrong. Danarius had never used blood magic on him._

"_I'm not his puppet," he said gruffly, using the only word he knew of that could in the Fog Warrior tongue convey the maleficar mind trick and its results that Tevinter languages had a dozen different terms for._

_Kari breathed out. Some of the tension seemed to bleed out of her. All of a sudden, Fenris felt guilty, as if he'd lied after all. "So I said," she said. "I was angry with Father. Very angry. When will he stop treating me like a child? He never spoke of his past to me before. He thinks I can't handle the truth. He doesn't believe I can live with it, or decide for myself."_

_Fenris shook his head. She was too eager to trust him. Raj was right; he was a danger to this village and everyone in it. He wanted to tell her so, but the words would not come. Something in him needed her acceptance too much, something that had only lately started to show the first sings of unwinding._

_Kari looked away. "Father also told me that when Mother healed your old wounds, she found hidden scars... bad scars. Very bad. Maybe from when you were a boy. She told that they must have caused you a lot of pain, that the memories must still haunt you. The things they did to you..." Perhaps for the first time ever, she seemed to lack the confidence to speak directly. Did she find his past repulsive? "Is it — is that why you wouldn't have me?"_

_He'd thought himself past useless shame, but now he very nearly cringed at her words. It was the first time he heard of Shiha's findings. He'd always suspected as much, from what Hadriana had suggested, and from what he'd personally witnessed Danarius do to adolescent elven boys behind closed doors. Yet after the ritual Danarius had never touched him against his will. He was too old and masculine for the magister's tastes, and after sating his curiosity about the markings, the man had left him alone — even when Fenris might have secretly wished it otherwise, instead of the ways his master chose to use him, and the games he allowed Hadriana to play._

_Fenris wondered how free people did it. How did they open their mouths and speak? It seemed almost physically impossible to just allow thoughts to slip from one's tongue. Was it because of that very lack of words that his mind felt so half-formed and shapeless?_

_Yet he knew he had to try. To survive here he would have to pretend that he had a will of his own._

"_No," he said. "That is not the reason. Whatever was done to me, I do not remember. I've lost all memory of my childhood."_

_It took a moment before she could speak from her dismay. "That's — that's horrible! How did it happen?"_

_He shrugged with the apathy he was used to feeling about his amnesia. Who was he to judge the tools Danarius had employed to shape him?_

"_It is how it is. The reasons do not matter."_

"_Then why did you reject me? I don't understand!"_

"_It — hurts," he said, the words clumsy and jagged as he spoke. He'd never had to explain this to anyone before. "It is physically painful for me to touch anyone."_

"_Because of your strange vallaslin?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Then why didn't you tell me before?"_

"_You didn't ask."_

_She looked like she wanted to howl in frustration. "That's not an answer! Did you mean to insult me?"_

"_No. If I could have... were it possible, I would have done it. Perhaps I wished too much I could." He kept his eyes averted, and fought his urge to bow and scrape._

_He heard her groan under her breath. "I'm starting to understand what Mother meant when she said that our ways are different. We use the same words, yet we mean different things by them. I thought your blood makes you like me, but now I see that I was wrong."_

"_Forgive me," he grated out. "Do you... wish me to leave?"_

_Kari snorted._

"_Phah. So you think I'm a child, too? Unable to get over a rejection? Don't be silly. You're not _that_ pretty, white-hair." She grumbled. "Well, almost. But not quite."_

_Hesitantly he raised his head to look at her. There was something wistful in the way her eyes passed over him, but no anger, and no sign of lingering bitterness. He made as if to bow to her, then checked the instinct. She would not understand the gesture._

_She looked around, and he noticed for the first time that the clouds were scattering and that the heavy hiss of rain had turned into a mere drizzle that washed away the last of the fog. Birds were starting to sing and the village was waking from its afternoon slumber around them._

"_Are you hungry?" she asked. "They're going to roast something I and Father brought. And there's much to talk about, of what we saw down the coast, more Qunari, and other _savvath_. We might have another battle on our hands soon. That should cheer you up, no?" She gave him a sad smile that seemed older than her years. "You must come and listen. And don't be so afraid to speak your mind! After all, you're not a child, either." She turned to go and mumbled something about city people and their tight-lipped ways. The monkey on her shoulder made a rude expression at Fenris behind her back._

_For a moment he watched her go, still bewildered by how she had neither chastised him nor demanded him to leave. No one showed such leniency with nothing to gain. Yet her intent toward him escaped definition, like everything in this place that had no master or servant and seemed more interested in sex, songs and stories than power._

"_So you're not coming, white-hair?" she called over her shoulder. "Coward!"_

_He frowned and straightened his back. If there was one thing Danarius had always commended him on, it was his courage. How could this wisp of a girl, barely out of her adolescence, say otherwise?_

_Then, with a pang of embarrassment, he realized that her unjust mockery was just a joke._

_Only much later did he realize she might have spoken the truth, after all. For what was it but cowardice, how he had turned his back and waited in silence for his master to return? Would he follow Kari now, they would expect him to take part, to speak. To not remain indifferent. But the purpose of a slave was to wait and to obey, and that was what he'd always done. Intimidated by the mere thought of becoming the center of attention, he wanted to remain like he had always been; an outsider. A stranger, a mere creature, isolated from his kind. A weapon to be held at his master's side and taken out only when needed._

_So, perhaps he was a coward. Perhaps it was just curiosity, that made him step from the shadow of the canopy and follow her. For it was definitely not courage. Of that, at least, he would always be certain._

o o o

Aveline's principal witnesses in the kidnapping case knew little beyond what she'd already told. It was slightly surprising, considering how much they talked, mostly on top of each other in their nervous excitement over meeting the Champion.

The women lived together in a dismal tenement house in Lowtown. Almost no light seemed to penetrate their narrow apartment, so small that Fenris stayed behind in the corridor so the rest could fit in. It was just one of dozens of similar rooms that had been knocked out in an old warehouse, with a pathetic cloth-covered hole punched through the thick stone wall to serve as a window. Hawke could smell and hear whole families living nearby, in homes no larger than the smallest servant's chamber in his estate, stacked in depressing rows next to each other. It was almost as bad as anything one might expect find in Darktown. Things had gotten worse after Viscount Dumar's death. Much worse.

The visit took quite a while. Despite their obvious destitution the women insisted on serving tea and cookies and carried them to Fenris in the corridor as well, taking the strange appearance of their guests in good stride. Of all the disjointed babbling that took place, Hawke distilled one new bit of information — one that Fenris confirmed, once they had finally extracted themselves from the over-animated females, and could head out to the sunlight and marginally fresher air outside.

"I don't think that their friend was being controlled," the elf said with obvious distaste, but also curiosity, while picking cookie crumbs from the seams of his armor. "I think that her memory was wiped, like mine."

"Shouldn't you be excited?" Varric asked. "I mean, bad as it is for the victims, maybe you'll find out something about your own condition."

"Perhaps. And yet... I've never heard of anyone outside Tevinter performing the trick. The idea that the magisters' lore is spreading throughout Thedas gives me no comfort."

The tea and cookies had left them more hungry, rather than less, and they headed for an early dinner in a decent tavern. Varric related some amusing rumors, Isabela graced them with a string of her dirtiest jokes, and even Fenris gradually showed signs of succumbing to their humor with a throaty chuckle that was quickly disguised as a cough. Hawke very carefully hid what feelings the sound elicited in him.

At sunset they headed for the Docks and a shady place to hide in. The night was clear and cool, with a steady wind that blew away some of the stink of fish and rotting seaweed. In what was usually a busy corner, Isabela strutted near one of the smoky braziers maintained by the harbor master's men, heavily rouged and disguised in a blond wig, wrapped a tight striped faux-silk gown tucked shockingly high up on one side. On a normal night, the usual owners of the street would quickly have torn her a new one for trying to work their area. But tonight most of the bawds were keeping to their homes. The desperate ones who remained kept their distance, or didn't seem to care. Rumors of the lack of merchandise had reached many potential buyers, but not all, and Isabela had her hands full in turning away men eager to sample the goods revealed by her scandalous outfit.

On a wooden platform erected against one of the immensely tall stone walls nearby, Hawke, Varric and Fenris stood in the deep shadow cast by Hightown, waiting for the unlikely event that their plan would work. The landing was on the small side, and Hawke found himself standing a bit too close to the elf for his peace of mind. He craved for _melleta_ to calm his nerves, but was afraid the pipe's glow would attract attention.

At first they waited in silence, but as the better part of an hour went by, they got too bored to keep completely quiet. Fenris and Varric started talking in hushed voices. Hawke just pulled the collar of his black coat up against the wind, tucked his hands in his pockets, and concentrated on keeping an eye on Isabela.

"You're in a suspiciously good mood today, Broody," Varric muttered.

"Oh?" Fenris rumbled. "I am?"

"Well, it's not that long since you burst into my suite looking like you're going to murder me. And now you haven't even complained about the smell of fish. Your lack of brooding disturbs me."

"It does? Should I ask why?"

"It might unbalance the universe. Other crazy stuff could start happening. Two-headed kittens and earthquakes. Shit like that. Bad for business."

"I see. Well, as long as it doesn't start raining magisters." A short pause followed. "Evidently my manners have been even worse than usual, lately. I... apologize."

"By the stone, now I know Kirkwall will be destroyed by a volcano. Bianca, honey, don't be scared. The mean elf is just joking."

"I do not like to grovel over my shortcomings. That does not mean I'm oblivious to them."

"May I take that as acknowledgement of all the times you've hurt my tender feelings?"

"I believe I have lost enough gold to you over the years to insult your 'tender feelings' now and then, dwarf."

Hawke knew there was a time he wouldn't necessarily have recognized the dry humor in the elf's words for what it was. Not for the first time, he wondered how much of the moody air Fenris projected was just the result of his gruff voice.

Varric chuckled. Then it was silent again for a moment.

How Isabela managed to turn away all the passing drunken sailors without incident was beyond Hawke's understanding. Once or twice he noticed the glint of a dagger when she turned down a particularly insistent customer, but otherwise she seemed to rely on her wit to redirect unwanted attention. It almost seemed like magic, the way she handled the traffic while waiting for their quarry to emerge.

After a while, Varric spoke again. "You don't need to stay in that pit, you know. It's falling apart. And the way that Orlesian's men trashed the place... did you even find your belongings?"

"I did." Fenris fell silent.

"No need to thank me or anything," the dwarf said after a while. "Or Hawke. In case you haven't already."

It was an open invitation for scraps of gossip, but Fenris refused to take the bait. "I'm not ungrateful for getting back the use of the place."

"Whoa! Don't overdo the praise, elf. Could hurt your reputation, you know."

"It seems peculiar to thank you for something I did not regret losing."

"So, I take it's just to spite your neighbors that you ask Aveline time and again to bury complaints and change the patrols around your mansion?"

"Yes, perhaps I was glad of being finally rid of the source of so much trouble."

Varric snorted. "Right. I get it, Broody. The next time Hawke asks my help to get back something of yours, I'll tell him to go sniff the roses."

"No, you won't. You'll do exactly as he says, like everyone else in this city."

Hawke stiffened at the elf's ironic tone of voice.

"Hey, what can I say," said Varric. "Even when he's got no clue what he's doing, he always takes me somewhere interesting. Or, well, at least interesting stuff tends to happen when he's there. So don't take that as an invitation to drag me for yet another hike across the good old Wounded Coast, eh Hawke?"

The street below was now almost completely empty, and Isabela seemed to be adjusting her endowments so they wouldn't accidentally spill out of her bodice. Against his better judgement Hawke turned, a hand on the railing, a strained smile on his lips. "So, what's your secret, Fenris? How come you're the only one immune to my charms?"

The elf's eyes glittered at him from beneath the shadow and the pale brushstrokes of his hair. When he spoke, his voice was dark and unreadable.

"Who says I am?"

Hawke's smile faded. The same seemed to happen to the world around them.

_Shut the fuck up, Garrett. There's no way he meant it like it sounded. Don't embarrass yourself._

"So, does that mean you'll follow my orders, too?" he heard himself say, his tone dropping several notes beyond mere flirt to open suggestion. Apparently the connection between his mouth and brain had just been severed.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"I must warn you, I can get very inventive."

Was he completely deranged, or did he see a tiny quirk twist the corner of the elf's mouth? "So they say. So far, I remain unconvinced."

"I'm sure I can change your opinion, if I put my mind to it."

The elf's gaze flicked down and back up, fixing Hawke's eyes with what might have been a challenge, had it been in any way possible and not just a figment of Hawke's overworked and apparently entirely insane imagination.

"I'm not sure your _mind_ is what you want to put anywhere, Hawke."

Suddenly Hawke had absolutely nothing more to say. Maybe because the temperature in his head (and certain other parts) had just increased dangerously.

_Don't stare at his mouth. Don't stare at his mouth. Don't —_

"Guys. I hate to interrupt your staring contest, but I think Rivaini's plan just worked."

At Varric's words, Hawke wheeled around, mind spinning.

"What? It did?" he rasped. For a second, he'd genuinely forgotten what they were doing.

"See for yourself." Varric jerked his head in the direction where Isabela had been performing her act.

Hawke did. Fenris stepped forward, as well. _"Venhedis,"_ the elf muttered in disbelief, a steel-covered hand on the railing.

Someone wearing a long hooded cloak had taken the Rivaini by the elbow, and was leading her in a fast and determined pace up the street, deeper into the district. The rogue seemed strangely docile, and Hawke realized immediately she was not just acting.

_Shit. Just a few more seconds without Varric happening to look down, and they would have..._ He cursed under his breath, and headed for the rickety wooden ladders with the dwarf in his wake. Fenris swung himself over the railing and dropped quietly a full storey's height to the shadowed street below. Hawke was reminded of how he'd once served Danarius as an assassin as well as a bodyguard.

When Hawke and Varric reached the street level, the elf was already standing behind a corner, gesturing for them to follow. Without waiting for them to catch up, Fenris slipped after the Rivaini and her companion, and the others followed at a slightly longer distance, knowing they would be far more likely to alert their prey to the presence of his secret audience.

"I think they're heading for Darktown," Hawke muttered after some time.

"Shit." Varric groaned. "Why do these crazies always have to live _underground?_ I just had the stink of sewers scrubbed from this coat, too. What if I just put a bolt in him? Make him talk. Safer than facing him on his turf."

Hawke shook his head. "I can't fight here, in the open. And he's got Isabela for a hostage. No, it's too risky."

"Your call, I guess," Varric said, clearly disagreeing, but not willing to press the matter.

After some more twisting alleyways and climbing a narrow, winding flight of stairs, they were greeted by the familiar thick, dark atmosphere of the undercity caverns, the smell of fish giving way to the stink of refuse and chokedamp and burning trash. Here they had to genuinely concentrate on not losing sight of the elf who flitted in and out of shadow ahead of them, white hair flickering against blackness and weak red fire. Wherever they passed, eyes followed them from the dark, either with the resigned indifference of the truly hopeless, or estimating how much their fine attire and weapons would pawn for — or perhaps what kind of gold they would yield when presented to a Tevinter slave trader. Once again Hawke was struck by how little his title protected him here. It was the staff at his back that made the Darktown gangs keep their distance, not his Championship.

Eventually the cloak-wearing stranger lead Isabela behind one of the few actual shop fronts in the undercity. It looked like a general store, not even a proper name on it, just the word 'SUNDRIES' painted in white across darkened planks. Like most such constructions here, it was half sunk in the black stone of Kirkwall coast, and could hide anything behind its facade.

To their surprise, the door was unfettered, and the room behind it looked like an actual store, neat and well stocked with cheap but serviceable goods. Someone who looked like the owner stood behind a cluttered counter, making notes in a ledger. He was a middle-aged elf of simple dress and a nondescript face behind thick spectacles. Of Isabela there was no sign, and the elf seemed much slighter of build than the man they'd been following.

"We're closing," he said in a disapproving tone. Then he raised his head and took in their weapons and Fenris's armor over the brim of his glasses. His demeanor turned wary. "In case you're with Tiberius, we've paid already. Come back next month." He shook his head and turned back to his bookkeeping. "By my ears, I can't believe how sloppy that man is with his accounts."

Without a word Fenris crossed the room, grabbed the man by his collar, and easily yanked him on top of the counter. Little tin boxes and plates and an inkwell clattered down and spread their contents on the stone floor, a ceramic paperweight shattered. Fenris's arm lit with a menacing flash, casting the shop owner's startled face in sharp relief.

"Where?" the Tevinter growled.

Hawke realized that Fenris was absolutely terrified something would happen to Isabela.

Without any pretense at ignorance, the shop owner pointed a trembling finger toward one of the stacks of shelves that covered the stone wall behind him. "S-s-secret p-passage," he wheezed past the gauntleted fist choking him on his own collar.

Fenris's grip tightened, making the man croak disturbingly. "Who is he?"

The shop owner waved his hand toward his throat, growing red in the face. With a curse, Fenris relaxed his sharp steel claws to an extent.

"I don't know!" the man rasped. "Just s-someone... renting the passage to the tunnels. A foreigner. From where, I don't know."

"Since when?"

"L-last month. We never speak. I never go down there myself! I'm too afraid! S-sometimes I think I can hear sounds rising from there, at night... he promised he would take care of them..." The man gasped for air. "Please, that's all I know!"

"You're fortunate I don't have time to put that to the test."

Fenris tossed the man behind the counter. With a cry, he crashed against the shelves and down to the floor, and raised his hands to protect himself as bolts of cloth rolled on top of him from their storage.

When Fenris turned, Varric was already going for the secret door, likely guessing where its hidden mechanisms could be found.

"Tie him," the dwarf said, nodding toward the sorry figure of the shop owner. "He may be telling the truth, but I wouldn't risk it."

Just a minute or two later they left the man hidden behind the counter, bound and gagged with some of his own sundries. Varric did something that looked like sleight of hand, and the secret door rotated on its well oiled hinges to reveal the black maw of a narrow downward tunnel. Hawke took his staff from his back and kindled his spell light, and the others took torches from the shelves and lit them from a lantern. As an afterthought, the Champion pressed a couple of coins on the tabletop in way of payment, in case the shop owner was really innocent. He almost expected Fenris to roll his eyes at such useless evidence of compassion, but it seemed that the Tevinter did not even notice his gesture, too intent on going after Isabela.

A moment later the secret door closed behind them, as they disappeared into one of the ancient Tevinter tunnels that meandered beneath Kirkwall, deeper than Darktown, and perhaps older.


End file.
